woogidy werschmirtle, and other things about my mother

[Dear friends/lovers/strangers/etc: please pretend this post was birthed in a timely manner? Shh, I won’t tell if you won’t.]

Happy Mothers’ Day, creeps! I hope you all celebrated in style. I messaged my mom this morning from the 2013 Portland Expo Alpaca Show.  Any event that boasts “500 alpacas, 200 alpaca ranchers and farmers and leading global alpaca experts” is so right up my alley. Alpacas are some of the strangest creatures on this planet. They’re like camel/dinosaur/teddy bears. Things I learned about alpacas: they’re related to camels, when they run it’s called “pronking”, and they are in fact edible. Ok, so that last one is an internet fact. We didn’t actually verify with any of the alpaca experts at the show. Also. If you make eye contact with an alpaca they may hum at you uncomfortably, because at the core we’re all socially-anxious creatures.

Anyways. That’s enough about two-toed camelid weirdos because this post is really about my mother (who is neither two-toed nor camelid). She is, in fact, a superhero because:

·         She successfully parents five children, myself included. To-date none of us have been lost, neglected or horrifically maimed. [Note: somebody knock on wood please, because we learned our lesson about superstition last week.]

·         Though she occasionally forgets our names she consistently remembers birthdays, favorite dinner preferences, and at least one daunting childhood memory to share with significant others (usually complete with photographs).

 

·         She inspired me to start running, and is the only reason I completed my first 5K. She beat me by a hair, but don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

·         By the time I was four years old she had taught me all the lyrics to “Bohemian Rhapsody”, along with proper headbang technique so I didn’t break my neck.

·         She once owned a cat named Woogidy Werschmirtle, and has since encouraged me to call every cat by that name. It really rolls off the tongue once you say it enough times. 

·         Three years ago she decided on a whim to join my rugby team so she could understand one of my life’s greatest passions.

·         On a related note: she survived an entire Maggotfest with her dignity intact, which is more than most of Missoula can say.

·         She gave birth to an 11.5 lb. baby, at home, without any sort of painkiller. ‘Nough said.  

  

·         She drove 18 hours in two days to deposit me, That Cat and all our worldly possessions in Portland Oregon, enabling me to attend Alpaca Expos, and write this blog about living in a new place and meeting new people and having All Of The Experiences.

·         She somehow telepathically knows the days I am crying on my way to work and without fail texts or calls me just to say hello. Just to say she loves me.

My mum was 21 years old when I was born. If our lives were progressing along the same trajectory, I would have a 3 year-old right now. You guys. I can barely keep my 3 year-old cat alive, let alone another human being.

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I think I turned out alright. And I’m excited to see the human beings my Littles turn into, because they were lucky enough to be homegrown by my mother too. So! Tell your mothers you love them, because you wouldn’t be here without them. And remember:

Cheers!

-b

Dog Problems.

Happy Thursday, lovers!

I have a confession to make. Sometimes in your twenties, you get pretty desperate for money. By “you” I probably mean me. There are only so many internal organs one can comfortably survive without. An even smaller percentage of said organs are worth anything on the black market. Also. Sometimes your tires, eyeballs, and wardrobe all need to be replaced. These things cost money, which is a real bitch when you spent your last dollas on a plane ticket home.  This month my financial options shook out to giving hand jobs on 82^nd or house-sitting for my boss. Desperate times, desperate measures right? As such, I’m currently the indentured servant/maid/bitch of two very small dogs.

I know what you’re thinking, and you're wrong. Don’t give me that “oh they’re so cute and you’re getting paid to play with puppies” bullshit. You guys, these dogs aren’t terriers. They’re terrorists and they’re waging war on my sanity. I used to think I was a dog person. I’ve changed my mind.

The trouble all started when I forgot to be a superstitious human. Normally I’m on the ball. Spilled salt always goes over my left shoulder, and I avoid crossing paths with black cats. There are ways a sane human being just doesn’t tempt fate. Like stating something with absolute certainty and not knocking on wood.

(Example: “Dog-sitting always reminds me why I love being a cat owner. Cats are so low maintenance! I could leave mine alone for ten minutes or ten days and she’d be just as irritated to see me when I came home”.)

Or picking up a facedown penny. Particularly in the Tik Tok parking lot on a sunny Saturday morning when you have lots of plans. Maybe it was the weather, or the Bloody Mary bar, or Tik Tok’s Cinco de Mayo breakfast specials with homemade guacamole. I’ll never know for sure, but I got careless. When you combine stupid assertions with inevitable bad luck, you’re asking for trouble.

When we checked on That Cat before commencing our Sunny Saturday plans, Lew and I discovered she was busily trying to die. Glazed eyes, voiceless meow, tried-to-jump-into-the-window-sill-but-missed-and-slid-down-the-wall trying to die.

You guys. When life is slowest I’ve occasionally wondered how I would behave in stressful situations. I like to imagine myself a stoic, making careful and objective decisions. Unfortunately, it turns out my first impulse is to laugh uncontrollably. My second impulse is to flail about ineffectually and maybe do more harming than helping. Luckily Lew kept me from killing Murphy in my efforts to save her. She held my hand, righted the upside-down cat purse when my too-fast corners sent it flying across the backseat, and gave me play-by-play updates on That Cat’s status.

           

After a physical exam, subcutaneous fluids, and a shot of steroids the doctor told me I needed to give That Cat antibiotics twice daily and shouldn’t leave her alone overnight... Thus began the turf wars: terriers in the loft, Murphy locked in my bedroom.

A Brief Compilation of Observable Terrier Facts:

1.      Terriers possess two different fuel reserves. They use one for general existence things like breathing, eating, walking, etc. They reserve their secondary and potentially limitless energy reserve for driving their house-sitters fucking insane.

2.      Preferred terrier activities include nose-whistling, running laps around the living room and barking at neighborhood children, cats, shadows, pieces of lint, and imaginary shadow creatures threatening your safety.

3.      Terriers are capable of forgoing food, water, and sleep if there is any potential they will be able to stalk, mangle, or otherwise interact violently with a cat.

4.      Terriers can comfortably knock a full plate of caprese salad onto the floor in the time it takes you to grab the pepper shaker. They will not eat said salad, because vegetables. But they will have spoiled it for you. This is enough.

5.      While we’re on the subject of terrier speed: they can de-bag a garbage can, clean a litter box, and eat chicken poop off the porch in the blink of an eye.

6.      Terriers’ weaknesses include four-year olds, inflatable swimming pools, and “terrier barriers” (constructed entirely out of empty cat litter cartons and 10 lb. dumbbells).

7.      Not all terriers are built equal. Sorry Doris.

There’s a story from my childhood that may or may not be a memory. We had a cat that loved to play with plastic bags. At night. When everybody was trying to be asleep. Plastic bags were especially wonderful if we had to wake up early. The earlier the better, right? It’s a plastic bag party! Err’body get cray!

At this point in his mid-20s, my father had options. He could 1) clean shit up so the cat didn’t have access to plastic bags 2) accidentally “lose” the cat under mysterious circumstances, or 3) enact revenge in a more subtle manner. Of course he went with that last one, because humans are pretty simple animals. By all accounts my father collected a handful of plastic bags, waited around the house until the cat decided to nap (which, let’s be honest, is approximately 15 hours a day), and snuck up on her. I have a very clear mental image of him poised over that sleeping cat, preparing to rustle the bags in her face and disturb her napping.

Aha! That’ll teach her! Except no. That’s not how animals work.

Goddamn I wish that was how animals worked. At this moment I would be snuffling, scratching and whining at the terriers’ crate door. Because obviously if I obnoxiously intrude on their space they’ll understand that I need mine. Right? Fuck.

As I write this both dogs are innocently sleeping and making me feel like a real asshole. So I will end this post with how Andrea Gibson feels about dogs. Trust me, it’s a lot better than I feel at this point.

I love you creeps, and don’t forget it.

-b