Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You

I have so much bizarre shit happen, and so many inane conversations that I rarely have to delve into my checkered past if I’m looking to tell a story to curdle your mind.  Occasionally though, a story of What-the-fuckery Past will push through the repression therapy and I’ll be reminded of a real gem with which I must traumatize regale you.  And you all can thank Dan from Shameless Promotions for pulling this tale from the depths of repression with his last post.  Make sure to go over there and thank him for the forthcoming mental assault.

The tale begins many years ago in the gay capital of northern England while walking home one Winter night from the pub with a friend.  Thanks to several hours of drinking, I was in desperate need of a loo, but Eion was dawdling around and taking his time as we walked.

“Will you please hurry up!  I!  Have!  To!  Pee!” I stomped my boot on the icy ground with each word for emphasis.

“Ha!  I do, too!” he replied with drunk giddiness.

“Too bad you can’t do this!” he add, and then he pulled himself out of pants and peed in the snow.

“I’m green with envy,” I said sarcastically, though I had to pee so bad that I actually was.

“HeyKatlook!”

peeing in the snow, writing name in the snow‘HeyKatlook’ was always said as one word, and it usually meant that I was going to see something that would scar my brain, but I looked anyway.  A yellow E-I-O-N had appeared in the snow.

“That’s great Ei, you can spell your own name.  And in urine no less.  Any six year old would be proud.  Though your penmanship is horrible.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” he zipped himself back up.

“If I had a whackado I could.”

“Bullocks!”

“Fine!  Let me use yours the next time you have to pee and I bet I will!” I snarled because I say the stupidest things when I’m challenged and angry.

Flash forward a few years later to me telling this story to one of the weirdest (and coming from me that’s saying a fucking lot) friends I ever knew.

Dawn’s eyes were as large as saucers as I finished the story.
“And that’s why you should always use the restroom before you leave a bar,” I took a swig of my Yuengling.

“So what was it like?” she asked.

“What was what like?”

“Holding a man’s penis while he peed?”

I nearly choked on my beer.

batman spit take, spit take“Are you completely mental?,” I wheezed between fits of coughing, “I didn’t fucking do that!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  You are seriously asking me that?”

“Just think about how cool that would be.”

I did think about and I didn’t think it would be cool at all.  I did however erupt into hysterical laughter.  For some reason this really pissed off (pun intended) Dawn and she hissed at me to keep it down because people were looking at me.

“You’re the one who told me to think about holding a guy’s peen while he pees!” I snickered.

“Well you brought it up in the first place,” she huffed at me.

And unfortunately I had.  But in my defense I blurt out a lot of random things so you would think Dawn would know better than to listen.

Dawn found a boyfriend a few months later.  As a result she didn’t have much time to hang out with girlfriends, and when she did, she brought her weirdo boyfriend with her.  This was the case on one of the last time we ever got together before her strange habits (she liked to talk about different ways she could pretend to drown in her pool and would practice them frequently) got to me.

“Guess what I did!” she greeted me as they arrived at the local watering hole.

I could tell by the look on her face that I did not want to guess what she did.

“I held Steve’s dick while he peed!”

(Did you ever have one of those moments where you felt something trickling out of your ear, and then when you touched it you discovered it was your brain?  Yeah…)

mind shattered, brain melt

It kinda feels like this.

“It was so much fun!” she gushed on.

“I liked it because I didn’t have to wash my hands,” Steve smiled his freaky smile.

I knew then that I was suffering from irreparable mental damage because I’m usually pretty sharp with the comebacks, and with all of the potential hand jokes there were, I could not think of a damn thing to say.

“I told Steve that it was your idea,” Dawn informed me.

That broke my silence.

“The hell it was!” I roared, “I never told you to hold your boyfriend’s penis while he peed!”

“Shhh!” Dawn glared at me, “I was trying to thank you!”

“Well don’t!  Take that credit for yourself!”

The topper of the evening though?  Steve had to use the men’s room a couple of times while we were out and Dawn went with him to “help”. Every. Single. Time.

youre welcome, you are welcome

Non-Related Identical Twins

I recently discovered that my American Eskimo dog, Kira, has a twin sister to whom she is not biologically related.  Her name is Yoki, and interestingly enough Yoki is owed by Bryan from A Beer For The Shower, who himself is not biologically related to his twin and co-author, Brandon.  The coincidences don’t stop there though because both Kira and Yoki have parents who drink too much.  This past Sunday Kira and Yoki got together to discuss their human parents.

american eskimo dogs

**The story behind Yoki’s (thankfully temporary) paralysis is here.

Kira Yoki 2 Kira Yoki 3Kira Yoki 4 Kira Yoki 5 Kira Yoki 6

(This was made on the fly and as a joke so I apologize for the poor picture quality.)

((Massive thanks to Bryan and Brandon and Yoki without whom work would have managed to screw me out of doing two posts this week.  *scratches behind all your ears*))

Nope. Like All My Short Stories, I’ve Not A Clue What to Title This

For those of ya’all who are new up in here, I occasionally get the urge to write something “serious”.

I know, I know.

This is not what you signed up for when you jumped on the crazy train that is Kat O’ Nine Tales, but the good news is that I don’t do it often, and I always give a warning right up front so you can get your ticket punched and leap from the car before I begin.  Don’t worry, I’ll loop right around and pick you up on the trip back to what-the-fuckery in the next post.  In the mean time, here’s some juice boxes and a few comic books to keep you busy until I get back.  Keep an eye on your little sister, and don’t talk to strangers.

So, background for this bit.  I started it way back in the beginning of February when I’d just started packing for The Move–hence the “home” theme–but never got around to finishing it.  I might have left this story in the pot since I moved up the projected finish date for my book, but then my hand was hurting like a bitch on Thursday night and I decided to use the pain to finish–hence the length.  I’m gonna blame it on the paaaaaain, yeah yeaaaaah…

*ahem*

Off we go then.

UPDATE: I finally named my “child” and it’s “Borne in Armor”.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At sunset the ocean turned the colour of fire and blood, a morbid reflection of the battle which had just ended.

The knight stepped out onto the sand, the wet ground immediately sagging under the weight of heavy armour, and then she dropped to her knees.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured, her voice barely loud enough to carry above the crash of waves.  She removed her helm and let her chin fall on her breastplate.

“It was a long battle, my lady,” her elderly squire moved to retrieve the helm from where it had fallen from his lady’s fingers, “and an even longer war.  But your enemy’s host has finally been crushed. You will be able to rest now.”

A clash of metal interrupted him as a pair of swords crossed over a prize looted from one of many corpses littering the field.

The squire turned back to his lady and shuttered as the victor ended his opponent’s life in a flash of sliver and a spurt of crimson.

“Let us leave this place, my lady. Let us go home.”

The knight pulled the metal gauntlets from her hands and then dropped forward so that her fingers clawed into the sand.

“Home? And where would home be, dear squire?”

“The land of your birth of course, my lady.”

The knight laughed bitterly as her head continued to hang low.

“The land of my birth? Surely you do not mean that place many leagues from here, where the hills doze in sleepy emerald waves with blankets of tiny purple flowers? Where cherry trees blossom and perfume the air so richly that you can taste their sweetness? Where Autumn mists creep through the Beechnut tree forest like leashes of silver foxes?”

She raised her head to look at the squire with grey eyes that were as hard and cold as her armour.

“Surely you do not mean that place.”

The squire scoured his mind for the correct answer to his lady’s peculiar speech.

“I do not understand, my lady,” he was finally forced to admit.

The knight stood up, “Assist me in removing the rest of my suit.”

“My lady that is unwise.  There may yet be enemies lurking at hand.”

“I am your knight and you will assist me,” her flinty eyes sliced into the squire.

“Yes, my lady,” he said quietly and began unfastening the knight’s breastplate.  He was loathe to place it on the damp sand yet did not have a choice.

“Do remember the first time that you helped me don this armour?” the knight asked as another piece of fitted metal fell to the sand.

“I remember, my lady.  You were fourteen, barely flowered, when you insisted that you would not become a spoil of war, that you would take your fate into your own hands and fight your family’s enemy.  And so your father humoured you, and gave you this armour, never expecting that you actively use it.”

A note of pride entered the squire’s voice as he continued his work, “How could any of us have known the conqueror that you would become?  How you would crush your enemies at every turn, destroy them in battle, and slaughter all who dared engage you.

He examined the gorget in his hands, “Truly my lady thrived in this armour.”

His eyes pleaded as he looked up, “And I would once again advise that my lady continue to wear it for her protection.”

“Counsel which was not requested of you, squire.  Continue your work,” the knight looked out into the ocean, “I would do this final task unburdened.”

A strange chill ran through the squire and his hands remained still, “My lady?”

The knight continued to stare at the burning water, “You claim that your lady thrived in this armour.  You are mistaken.  Your lady died in this armour.  And became something else.”

She turned to face him again, teeth clenched in anger, “I commanded you to continue your work.”

The squire slowly raised his hands, but then moved with deft, efficient motions until the knight’s entire suit lay in a pile on the sand and she stood before him wearing only a thin shift stained with sweat and blood.

“Is the land of my birth truly my home, squire?” she asked softly.

The ocean breeze combed through the lady’s long red hair and the squire was reminded of the little girl who would weave flowers into her braids.

“Yes, my lady,” the squire’s voice was heavy with urgency, “Yes, always.”

She smiled sadly, “Then I am to remain here.”

“There,” she said gesturing to the smoking battlefield with a bare arm, “That is the land of my birth, squire.”

The squire looked onto the field.  The remains of those who had fallen in sacrifice of his lady’s victory were being carted away for proper burial, but the bodies of the enemy would remain to rot and feed whatever carrion would find them.

“There is no home to be found there, dear squire,” she finished and turned back to the rolling waves.

“And now you understand why I needed to be free of my false armour,” the lady began walking toward the surf.

The squire felt the tide of panic rise as he realized his lady’s purpose.

“No!  My lady!  Do not do this!”

She did not respond but continued to the water.

“My lady, please!”

Her feet had just met the water’s edge when she paused a moment but did not turn.  The ocean foamed around her and up the shore from her back like the long lacy wedding veil the lady might have worn in a different life.  And then she was gone beneath the waves.

Tears were running freely down the old man’s wrinkled cheeks as the last gasp of sunlight was swallowed by the horizon.  He could not choke back his sobs at the bitter irony that, while he did understand his lady’s need to rid herself of her armour, she would have drown quicker had she kept it on.

red ocean sunset

Hammered, Head & Obnoxious Dogs: Moving ala Kat

I’ve discovered why people lose things during a move.

It’s because that while you start out packing things all nice and organized–Wonder Woman collection in one box, nunchucks and other weapons in another box, handcuffs, vibrators and flavoured body paint in a third–you eventually get to the point where you don’t give a fuck where things are packed as long as they are in a box and the hell away from you.

It’s particularly unwise to be disorganized while packing when your mother is offering to help you unpack.

(“Kat, I was unpacking your towels and came across a box labeled “Sir Thumps-alot” that was mixed in with them.  There’s a buzzing sound coming from it.”)

Despite my mother’s help, I’m still settling in so I’m way behind on my blog roll and on returning the comment love.  I’ll catch up soon though.  I usually wouldn’t do another post before I’ve caught up, but writing helps me maintain what semblance of sanity I have so I’ve decided to tell you about the moving day madness.

Moving day was as I imagine childbirth is like in that during it I was sweating, cursing and the male members of my family were terrified that I was going to flip out and scream and cry at them, and that by the end of the day I was exhausted and bleeding.

I awoke at around 4:30am on moving day.  And when I say “awoke” I mean that I just decided to pull my zombie ass out the bed since I hadn’t actually slept in over a week.  I had a few things to finish packing before my brother and BFF arrived to help with the move, so I got out my pile of newspaper to begin wrapping.  Kira, however, decided that I wasn’t under enough stress so she decided to play “Let’s Be As Obnoxious As Possible”.

This game begins with your dog blasting into your pile of newspaper like a fucking maniac and scattering them all over the place.

scattered papers

Thanks, Kira.

Then she grabs your Domo stuffed animal which you are trying to pack along with the other Halloween things and takes off with it.

(Seriously, Kira does not play even play with her own stuffed toys so this was completely just her being a brat.)

((I don’t have a picture of this because I was too busy chasing Kira down to get the damn animal back.  I eventually decided that I didn’t care and let her shake the shit out of it.))

Finally, when your BFF brings you doughnut for breakfast (because pink doughnuts are the breakfast of champions, ya’all), your dog proceeds to smack around the bag containing the doughnut with a fury that would be the envy of any pimp.

american eskimo dog, pink doughnut, dunkin' donuts

Kira wants this doughnut. Oh yes she does.

After playing this charming game with my dog, I then heard tales of my mother trying to take apart and move an old entertainment center from the spare bedroom where I would sleeping.  Apparently the screwdriver wasn’t working so she just took a hammer and smashed the bastard apart.

smashed furniture

The remains of the battle left by Mumma’s Hammer

I was unaware until that day that, not only had I received my love of slutty boots from my mother, but also my destructive nature.  To prove that the psychotic apple doesn’t fall far from the insane tree, I too employed a hammer about an hour later when I was trying to take apart an inversion table.  The only difference is that I called my hammer Mjolnir and declared myself to be Thor while doing it.

We were in the final process of carefully moving haphazardly throwing the furniture into my mother’s house when I nearly split my forehead open.  BFF was holding my iron coffee table frame with the legs facing out and I decided to headbutt the bottom of one leg.  This was not BFF’s fault at all, I’m seriously just a major klutz who walks into shit like this.  And what made the situation even worse was that while my mother and BFF searched in panic for a bag of ice to stop the swelling I could not stop laughing.  Again this is about par for me to be laughing my face off while blood trickles down from a huge goose egg erupting on my forehead.

Once the swelling subsided, and the final pieces of furniture were moved, we went to do what I do best–drink Tequila–because when you have a possible concussion it’s a good idea to suck down two margaritas as quickly as you can.

margarita

I held it against my forehead to keep the swelling down so this was for medicinal purposes.

I might not have drank my ‘ritas as quickly except that our waiter was totally vibing on BFF and kept bringing us booze.  And I drank it because that’s the kind of friend I am to sacrifice my liver to get my bestie some nookie.  Unfortunately BFF was not drinking so the efforts of our enamored waiter did not impress him at all.

Don’t worry, I still drank enough for two people.

Thus concluded Major Moving Day.

Mini Moving Day Mini Post tomorrow.

I’m Lethal In Bed

Even a badass, independent chick such as myself sometimes really needs a guy in her bed.  Namely Mr. Sandman.  He’s been avoiding me for the past few weeks and as soon as I find out which slut he’s cheating on me with, I will cut off his sandbags.

Sandy should know better than to test me because I’m always a dangerous individual, but even more so when I’m in an insomnia phase.

The Reign of Kat’s Insomnia Terror began when I was about twelve.  (Yes Sandy and I have been in a dysfunctional relationship since I was twelve years old.  He couldn’t even wait until I was a teenager.  The fucking pig.)

beware dangerous womanIt started when my parents couldn’t figure out why I was having difficulty staying awake during the day.  The mystery was solved when my mother woke up in the middle of one night to find me trying to get out the back door.  When she asked me what I was doing I replied by making some kind of unholy snarling and grumbling.  My mother called a priest and after being assured that I wasn’t possessed, she concluded that I was just sleep walking.

My parents thought that a change of location might cure my nightly excursions so I went to live with my grandparents after this.  The plan seemed to work until one night about a week after I’d moved in that my grandmother was startled from her sleep to a scream of, “Oh SHIT!” followed by the sound of someone shaking the huge antique writing desk.  (FYI, this was during the brief period between my profane toddlerhood and adulthood when I was not prone to foul language, so my grandmother was pretty shocked by my outburst.)

The next night, my grandparents were still awake when I took my nightly jaunt.  They were sitting at the dining room table when I joined them with a glazed look on my face.

“Are you okay, Kat?” my grandmother asked.

I continued to stare at the wall.

“You’re sleep walking, Kat.  Why don’t you go back to bed?”

I answered my grandmother by picking up one of the many ashtrays overflowing with cigarette ash, taking a deep breath and spitting as hard as I could into it, causing an explosion of ash to cover my grandmother, my grandfather, and the dining room table.

After a third night of my roaming the house my grandmother took to booby-trapping the hallway to make sure that I didn’t make it to the backyard…because having me break a leg by tripping over some strategically placed chairs and puppy gates makes a lot more sense than letting me wander around.  Luckily while I continued to sleep walk throughout secondary school, I at least never broke any part of my darling body.

Nowadays while Sandy and I still are often at odds, I don’t sleep walk anymore.  No no, as was discovered during the time that I was living with my ex, my insomnia has taken an even more dangerous aspect.

One night while living with my ex, I was feeling particularly frustrated with my current phase of insomnia, so I poked him in the back as he slept.

“What?  What do you want?” he demanded.

“I can’t sleep.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Well…” I batted my eyelashes and twirled a lock of my long hair.

Ex rolled his eyes, “Forget it.  I’m tired.  You’ll eventually fall asleep.”

“No I won’t!” I pouted.

Actually I did, which is a fucking miracle since I was frustrated on two fronts at that point and this was back before I was aware that a pair of AA batteries could have helped with both issues.

Unfortunately, as often happens when I managed to doze off during an insomnia phase, I had a nightmare.  In this dream a old man in a wife beater and boxers was kicking me.  I wasn’t kicking his ass back because he was an old man and where the hell is the challenge in that, but I finally caught his leg in my dream and dug my claws into his calf.

“OW!” he screamed.

“I told you to stop kicking me!” I yelled at him, digging my nails deeper as he struggled to kick me again.

“OWWW!” he screamed again, “OWWWWW!  STOP!

At this point I woke up to discover that I had curled up against my ex–as I would often do to his annoyance since I am always cold when I sleep–and was digging my claws into him.

“Why did you do that?!” he screamed.

“I was dreaming!  I’m sorry!” Unfortunately when you’re laughing your face off while apologizing, people tend to doubt your sincerity.

This is why when a girlfriend of mine was recently talking about how she has a “no sleep over rule” after she gets busy with a guy, because she doesn’t want them to get clingy, I told her that I have that rule, only it’s for their safety.

no sleepoversno sleepovers

In closing you might have noticed a theme of when I tend to go through insomnia and as you can see, it always coincides with stress.  And what with moving, packing, working crazy hours and putting a deadline on finishing my novel, I can’t imagine why I’d be having difficulty sleeping.*

*Only another week or so of Kat’s moving bullshit and then we’ll be back to regular bullshit.  And post that’s aren’t quite so long–geez!

Snow Leaves Me Late and Drunk

I had started to write a follow up to this post about SOPA, but then I left for Boston and writing about the spectacularly fucked up trip to get there is much more appropriate.

gollum, hello precious

“Hello, Preciousssss…”

I usually drive up to Boston, but for this trip I was taking the bus because I find that sitting next to a guy who resembles Gollum and trying to look down my shirt for the entire seven hour trip makes for a most charming experience.  It also saves a lot of money when you’re a starving writer.

(Do you like how I put “starving” in there? Like how it’s not already implied as soon as you say “writer” that you’re starving?)

The main issue with taking the bus though is that they leave at a predetermined time rather than at whatever time I arrive to board, and with the insanity that follows me around like a stray cat, I usually end up running late.

If I was a mature person I would admit that the first screw up of the trip was my own fault since I didn’t plug in my cell phone, thus the battery was dying which resulted in its alarm going off very softly to conserve energy, thereby leading to me not waking up as early as I needed.  Instead I’m going to say that my phone’s battery blows and that it shouldn’t need to be charged as often as it demands.  Piece of shit.

LATE!

Waking up late was then compounded when I discovered that it had started snowing during the night.  I had my dog’s leash firmly in my hand when I opened the front door to leave for my mother’s house, but an Eskimo dog’s instinct to blast into snow is more powerful than the lock to keep the lead from letting out too far and she ended up nearly pulling my shoulder out of its socket as she blasted off into a snow drift.

“Kir-AAAAHHHHH!” I screamed as she yanked me into the snow and sent my backpack and suitcase flying from my arms.

COLD!

I was parched by the time I reached mumma’s so the first thing I did when I got to her house was to yank open the refrigerator, grab the orange juice and start chugging straight from the carton because I’m a lady like that.  I had swallowed at least two huge gulps before I realized that my brother had added fucking vodka to the carton of orange juice.  I spat out what was left in my mouth but there was no getting around that I had just chugged a giant Screwdriver for breakfast.

DRUNK!

I could have possibly still made the bus at this point, but then my mother and I reached the highway and it was still snowing and this is southern New Jersey.  South Jersey + Snow (of any accumulation) = You’re not going anywhere motherfucker.

FUCKED!

There was another bus leaving three hours later and rather than have my mother drive me across the bridge again, I convinced her to leave my pathetic ass at the station where there was at least the world’s worst coffee and incredibly slow Wifi.  All was calm until I took a trip to the restroom.

When I had gone into the bathroom stall, the lock didn’t turn very easily.  If I hadn’t been buzzed on vodka, I probably would have gone to another stall, but instead I cursed at the lock and turned it until it caught in the door.  The lock got its revenge though.  When I went to leave, it refused to release the door.

HAHA!

It was about 7am at this point, I was cold, drunk and nauseated so I did what I do best which was to be impulsive and destructive.  I pulled one of my slutty boots from my suitcase, yanked it on and then kicked the shit out of the bathroom door until I broke the lock.

Violence always makes me feel better so it didn’t even phase me when I finally boarded the bus a couple of hours later and the driver announced, “So this snow…um…yeah, I hope you guys weren’t planning on getting to Boston on time ’cause…nah, that’s not gonna happen…”

Yay snow in south Jersey/Philly.

obama snowball, cat

Even Obama laughs at my pain. (I laughed my ass off at this for some reason.)

EDIT: Ya’all need to read Nicki’s comment below to hear how she experienced hearing this story firsthand.  And kazoos are awesome.

Christmas With The Kat Sidhes

christmas insanityChristmas this year was marked by slutty shoes, squid, my dog and a bunch of hoes.  And this is tame by my family’s standards.

I was still recovering from a hellacious battle with food poisoning, my grandmother was sick, my brother was late, and mother was sick and late and upset for unhilarious reasons, so Christmas Eve was rather subdued.  It was kinda like going into a mental asylum right after the patients’ doping drugs had kicked in.

My aunt, BFF, and Kira, however, were bouncing off the fucking walls and provided the majority of material for this sequel to A Very Katsidhe Christmas.  Like that post, this one looks long, but it’s all conversation so it goes quickly.

I’d already shared the first trauma of the evening in Sixty Squid A-Screaming because finding a box full of intact squid was enough to warrant a post of its own, so I’ll just jump right ahead to where BFF arrived and helped me clean the squid.

***

The mail slot on my front door opened, followed by kissy noises made through it and Kira’s subsequent furious barking heralding the arrival of BFF.

“The squid were whole!” I immediately screamed as he walked in the door, “I’m talking eyes, tentacles, sand!

The poor man barely had time to get his coat off before I was yanking him into the kitchen, pissing Kira off in the process since I was robbing her of her requisite greeting rubs.

My grandmother, aunt and cousin, M., arrived about half an hour later.

“The squid were whole!” I again screamed by way of a greeting, and then filled them in on the gory details.

“You did good cleaning up the puke stain from the carpet, Kat,” my aunt remarked eyeing the scheme of the crime, “I cleaned it as best I could and then just dumped Mop N’ Glow on the area so it wouldn’t smell.”

“I know, that was a good idea.  I felt horrible that you had cleaned up as much as you did though,” I told her.

“It was really thick, too,” my aunt continued, “I just closed my eyes and held my breath.”

“Uh…huh, yeah I think it’s time to open the wine now,” I told BFF and M.

After a glass of wine and giving the savages the first course–Crab and Asparagus Soup–everything was pretty calm.  Except for Kira.

When Kira was a puppy, she barked at my aunt and my smartass aunt barked back at her.  Kira has never forgiven her for this and as such she barks and growls whenever my aunt moves an inch.  Since I was in the kitchen, and Kira knew I was too busy to execute any threats, my shouts of “Kira hush!” were completely ignored and she continued to growl and glare daggers at my aunt until my mother showed up and distracted her.

“The squid were whole!” I screamed at my mother when she walked in the door.

I had just finished frying said squid and put them on the table along with the spaghetti and marinara sauce.  My aunt got her spaghetti at which point Kira suddenly forgot her grudge and wanted to be besties with her.  In other words, Kira wanted my aunt’s spaghetti.

Kira knows a number of tricks including sit, shake, high-five, and down, but one of her most impressive is her ability to speak.  If you ask Kira to speak, she doesn’t bark but will usually say either “hello” or “hearf” which I take to mean “here” as in “put some food here”.  Lately though Kira has been making a new sound that sounds suspiciously like “hoe”.

As Kira pawed at my aunt and wagged her tail my cousin suddenly asked, “Kira, what is your aunt?”*

“Hoe,” Kira responded.

(Yes, my dog has incredible timing which you know if you’ve read this entry.)

The thing is though, that Kira gets so much attention–and usually food–for saying this that once she starts she will keep saying “hoe” all night, thus Kira continued to smack my aunt with her paw and call her a hoe.

I ignored the debacle and told BFF that the next dish was almost ready.

“I’m not eating anything called a snot-knocker!” my grandmother suddenly announced.

“What?  What the hell is a snot-knocker?” I boggled at her.

“You just said that the snot-knockers were almost ready to come out of the oven.”

“The croissants!  I said that the croissants are almost ready to come out of the oven!”

“Hoe,” said Kira as she nudged at my aunt.

My aunt ignored Kira and instead asked my mother how she could stand wearing the hooker-heeled shoes she had worn that night. (I get my love of slutty boots from nowhere strange.)

“Because she’s a real woman,” BFF answered for my mother.

“Haha! And what am I?” my aunt responded.

“Hoe,” Kira reminded her.

(My dog is a fucking genius, I swear.)

My brother finally arrived, but at that point I was getting tired and cranky, so instead of greeting him with a scream about the squid, I snapped at him that it was nice of him to finally show up.

“You’re lucky I came at all!  You still owe me restitution!” he told me.

“Restitution for what?” my mother asked.

“Last week we saw that girl that Kat was going to hook me up with, and the girl told us that she had just had a three-way with her new boyfriend!  If Kat hadn’t waited to hook us up that could have been me, but noooo she had to wait.”

“That’s sick!” my mother gasped.

“Hoe,” Kira agreed.

(I say again, a fucking genius.)

“Kat owes me restitution!” my brother pointed an accusing finger at me, and I was about to say something really snarky when my mother interrupted.

“Gator, is that the kind of girl that you really want?  To do that sort of thing!  And she’s not even married!”

At which point we all nearly choked from laughing so hard.

“You’re right, Mom, you should definitely wait until you’re married to have a threesome!” I howled through my laughter.

“That’s not what I meant!” my mother turned red.

I returned to the kitchen to finish the last dish when BFF turned and told me, “You know, Kat if you were a real woman you would be wearing heels while you were in here cooking, too.”

“Yeah, well, we know I’m not one of those,” I told him as I grabbed a piece of Cod with my bare hand and gobbled it down whole and finished cooking.

***

I’ve been asked by readers how I remember exactly what people have said when I’m regaling ya’all with conversations I’ve had with, say, my family for example.

I can answer this questions by citing a quote from “Psychology  and Aging”:

Posttraumatic stress disorder is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma.”

So there you have it.

*We were actually able to video this but it features family members who don’t want to be publisized so I’m going to try and edit it and then post it.

The Past Eight Days In 27 Sentences (Or So)

What do you do when you are pressed for time and your eyes are strained, but you haven’t done a blog post in over a week?

DO A LIST!

  1. This is the ultimate blog post cheat since I make lists all the time anyway.
  2. I worked ALL. DAY. YESTERDAY. on finishing the book I’ve been writing procrastinating about for years because I’ve had it, and this fucker is getting finished within six months.
  3. I have eye strain from this.
  4. The irony of being an optometry tech yet suffering from eye strain is not lost on me.
  5. The irony of being a part time optometry tech yet working 40+ a week is not lost on me either.
  6. The irony of the term “fresh frozen” is a little lost on me.
  7. If the Zombie Apocalypse comes before I’m finished writing my book, I will put off kicking zombie ass and feeding hipsters to them until after I’m done this book.
  8. That is saying a lot because I’ve been training for the Zombie Apocalypse my entire life and I really hate hipsters.
  9. I am a Twittering MASTER!
  10. I’ve decided to use the word “twittering” as a synonym for “using a vibrator” from now on.
  11. Number 9 is still accurate.
  12. In related news, my dear sweet friend, Jewels, reposted one of my smut pieces on her Naughty Nothings blog.
  13. You are welcome, from both of us.
  14. I (← Hey kids! This is a link to Kat’s Twitter account because she’s an attention whore!) share credit for the best hashtags ever ie: #hecklingbuildscharacter with my loves, Nicki and Celia and #randomsnugglepunch with darling RandyGirl.
  15. My most retweeted tweet was “Was a Republican 4 Halloween. Gave all the candy 2 the big kids & told the small ones that they could have candy if the big kids dropped it.”
  16. My second most retweeted tweet is “I’m later than Odysseus returning from Troy”. #speakingonlyinnerdyanalogies
  17. Conclusion: I think about twittering too much lately.
  18. Heh heh heh.
  19. Baked ziti and coffee taste horrible together.
  20. I want both baked ziti and coffee right now so I’m consuming them together anyway.
  21. My eyes really fucking hurt, but I’m writing this because I love you guys!
  22. DILDO.
  23. I probably didn’t need number 22. since I only say “dildo” when my entry is becoming disturbingly coherent and I don’t think that “coherent” accurately describes this post.
  24. I’ve been engaged in psychological warfare with my upstairs neighbor where he screams like a fucking banshee during football games and I do ABBA karaoke.
  25. We’re probably both going to get evicted for disturbing the peace before it’s over.
  26. I get more immature than usual when I’m tired.
  27. Uranus has 27 moons. *snickers*

We will return to your regularly scheduled what-the-fuckery as soon as it doesn’t feel like I soaked my contacts in lemon juice.

The Year in Review 2011 Post

I usually avoid writing about events that I know every other writer is talking about on their blogs, but I’ve been doing the Year in Review thing for many a New Year’s now, so I’m making an exception.  I’m actually happy that this is a blogging trend and would probably follow it even if I had not been doing it for years because I’ve really loved reading everyone’s reflections on the past year.  This Year in Review is a little different than the previous years though because it was it was one year ago today, I started seriously blogging.   As a result, I don’t need to chronicle the events of 2011 in detail since most of the major ones are listed in the archives, that thing to the left that I call the “Athenæum” because I love ridiculously obscure words.  Instead I’m going to reflect a bit on how those events affected me.

Oh dear God she’s going to get introspective.

Yeah, this is likely gonna be one of those entirely skippable entries since I’ll babble and emote to the point that the entry will be just a squishy mess of fucking feely mushy mush that will make your teeth hurt.  Don’t worry, the next entry will be back to holy-shittery as usual though.  To those wise peeps who are jumping off at this point of the entry, I just want to say Happy New Year!  Thank you for helping make my year rock out with its cock out.~

Now on with the mushy-mush, heavy, thinky shit.

WARNING:  LAST CHANCE TO RUN BEFORE I START SENTIMENTAL BABBLING!

Writing has always been a huge part of me.  I was about four years old when I began drawing pictures and making up stories to go along with them.  Unfortunately, since I seemed to have a natural gift for writing pretty well, I took the skill for granted and never pushed myself to become better.  I think this had to do with my most hated emotion and the one that I seem to be fucking constantly battling: fear.  I was afraid to find out that “pretty well” was the best that I could do.  I was afraid that, while I might be a star in the Little League, that I could never compete in the Majors.  I’d done too much stagnating during the past five years though, and it was time to either face the truth if I sucked, or to stop making excuses and write like I’ve always wanted to do.  For whatever reason, I chose to blog as a means to figure out if my writing was shit or not, and it’s one of the best things I have ever done.

I’ve experienced several devastating losses in 2011, the first and the one with the largest impact was losing the job I had held for nearly ten years.  To fully appreciate what a loss this was you would have to know how impossible it is for me to stay in one place for very long, let alone ten years.  That alone is indication of how much the place meant to me, but also, losing my job resulted in the loss of many things such as a steady income, health insurance, several friends who I would no longer see every day, and just security in general.

2011 also saw the loss of a dear friend, one whom I still go to text when I have an urge to say something stupid and be called mental.  I could say more about her loss, but honestly it’s one that I’m still dealing with and don’t want to talk about.  Suffice to say it’s been pretty shitty.

If I had experienced either of these losses in the previous year, they probably would have been enough to send me spiraling back down into the walking ghost phase that I had been living since 2006, but fortunately this year had been enriched in ways that I could have never imagined.

What I’m getting to in a much longer route than I had anticipated was that this blog has made the difference for me this year.  Oh my God that sounds so fucking sappy.  On a writing level, it helped me to maintain a better–though still not brilliant–writing schedule.  It’s also given me some confidence that my writing might not be completely crappy given the amount of positive feedback that I’ve received about it.  My writing even led to my blog getting BONed, a honour that I’m still reeling over.  And if someone had told me that by the end of the year that I would have 800 people following my writing, I would have called them a filthy name.  It makes me think that perhaps my writing doesn’t suck.

On a personal level, I have formed some fucking brilliant relationships, and that is as amazing, if not even more amazing given my guarded nature, than the writing progress.  Jewels, Randy, Nicki, even S.O., and quite a few others that I’ve mentioned in past entries (see my Blog roll for more), were all people that I did not know a year ago, and cannot imagine not having in my life now.  They, and all of you dear readers, are a blessing that I never, ever saw coming.

patron, tequila

Drinking baby Patrons.

I’ll wrap this squishy package up by saying that while 2011 punched with some heavy fists, I was also held by some gentle hands.  The glass of Tequila is always half full.

Unless it’s my glass, in which case it’s empty.

Not because I’m a pessimist, I just love Tequila.

Best Wishes for Happiness, Health and Kicking ass for you all!

Slàinte! (<—Scots Gaelic spelling, as opposed to my usual Irish version, in honour of Auld Lang Syne)

Sixty Squids A-Screamin’

Okay, maybe there weren’t sixty squid, but it certainly felt like there were at least that many as I was pulling their little corpses apart.

But let me back up a bit.

As I stated back in this grinchy post, I do the Feast of Seven Fish thing for my family on Christmas Eve because it makes perfect sense for an Irish/German/Lenape chick who doesn’t cook all year to follow an Italian custom which involves cooking seven courses in one night.

Last year was the first time that I had attempted this feat and while it went really well, I did note things that I would do differently to make it easier on myself next year.  Armed with those notes, I figured that this year would be a breeze, but then I should know better by now.

The first wrench in the monkey works this year came from my infamous “part-time” job and the fact that everyone except myself had quickly written on the schedule that they couldn’t work on Christmas Eve once we found out that the doctor planned to have hours that day.  I was pretty pissed off given that, unlike my coworkers who just didn’t want to work that day, I had actual shit to do on Christmas Eve, so I wrote on the schedule that I would work but I didn’t give a fuck if there was an office full of patients that I was leaving at 12:30.  (I didn’t write that exactly, but they got the drift.)

Having to work on Christmas Eve was bad enough, but the true fuckery came from the very ill-timed bout of food poisoning that I chronicled in my last entry.  It made it so that not only was the cleaning that I had planned on doing during the week before Christmas not done, but in fact my apartment was even messier than usual since I was too weak to do much more than let my empty bottles of Gatorade and half-eaten bowls of soup accumulate around me for five days.

I ran home after work on Saturday, did my hair in pin curls (based on learning last year that cooking for hours over a hot stove in a tiny apartment leaves you hair looking like hell.  It’s also annoying), and cleaned up my apartment.

cleaning squid, squid

SURPRISE!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE! YOU GET TO PULL OUR CORPSES APART!

Once the worst of my messiness had been cleaned, I scrambled to the kitchen to start on the fish.  I opened the first package of fish and then jumped back and screamed like a fucking girl as a box of intact squid stared up at me with their black accusing eyes.

What the fuck is this?!” I howled.

I had bought all of the seafood fresh, but in much the way that the salmon had been cut into a filet and was not a whole fish, I had expected the squid to be dissected into tubes.  However I didn’t have a choice but to get over my squeamishness though because there had to be seven fish and at 4:30 pm on Christmas Eve, there were hardly going to be any places open to get a replacement fish.  Instead I raced to my computer and googled “how the fuck do I clean a squid”.

((I don’t know how many of you know how to clean a squid, and I don’t know how many of you really want to know how to clean a squid, but today’s your lucky day because you’re going to get a brief breakdown.  Consider it a late Christmas present.))

To start, you have to grasp the squid just above the eyes where the body is coming out of the tube.  Ideally you want to rip the majority of the body out of the tube, but since these squid were a little icy, the body tore a bit more than it usually would.  You are then supposed to reach in the tube and “eviscerate” the squid, but since my squid bodies weren’t separating themselves as cleanly as they should have, I had more to “eviscerate” than normal.  It didn’t help matters that I had been unable to even try touching the squid again until after I had donned a pair of rubber gloves and they made it so that I couldn’t feel inside the tube all that brilliantly.  When I finally had the first tube sufficiently rid of its contents, I grabbed my cooking scissors and cut it into rings.  When something pink dropped into the bowl along with the pieces of squid, and I realized that I had cut my glove and was being a pussy, I ditched the gloves and continued dissecting my squid.

squid diagram

Handy, dandy diagram

cleaning squid

THANK YOU, BESTIE!

The act of having to rip apart squid was bad enough, but what was also stressing me was that the squid-cleaning was throwing me way behind schedule.  I decided to pull all of the squid bodies out of their tubes, since that was the most disgusting part, and then let my BFF who was coming early, finish the cleaning and cutting of the tubes.  I’m sure that BFF appreciated being yanked immediately upon arrival into the kitchen to look at a sink of half-dissected squid.  (Thank you, BFF.)
Overall the Second Annual Feast of Seven Fishes went well–no one threw up and I didn’t set the broiler on fire this year–but I’ve added to the list of things to change for next year and number one is to get CLEANED SQUID.

A final note: My family of course said a number of brain breaking things throughout the night, so an entry of familial what-the-fuckery a la A Very Kat Sidhe Christmas Part Deux will be forthcoming.

A final final note: I’m adding this entry to my List of Shameless Shit because I did number 6: “Act girly or manly in a way you’d normally avoid” by getting so worked up like a priss over some dead squid.