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.

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.

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.