Migrating From Blogger to WordPress While Battling an ICD Attack Was Not My Best Idea

Um, I guess you’ve probably noticed by now that the place looks a little different.

That’s because, in one of the worst cases of impulsiveness I have ever executed, I decided to migrate Katoninetales.com from Blogger to WordPress. I did this because I was having an Impulse Control Disorder panic attack and needed a distraction to ensure that I didn’t do something to hurt myself, and in a spectacular bout of irony ended up causing myself more pain than any of my vices could have done. This is because I don’t know shit about how computers and the interbutz actually work. As far as I know I click a button on my laptop and The Computer Fairy casts a magic spell to turn the computer screen into a window to Interwebz Land. Migrations are never easy but when you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing it’s like being dropped into a foreign country with a map written in Braille. And the Braille is in a different language. And you can’t understand what the natives are saying but you’re pretty sure that they’re making fun of your Fanny pack.

In other words, there are a lot of ways to fuck up a migration I did every single one of them.

First,

I Changed Servers Before Migrating My Site

To be fair to myself I will tell you that I did not expect my former host server to cancel my service as quickly as it did. I had emailed my host for my site’s EPP code (this is apparently the secret spell to unlock your domain registration) and they took it upon themselves to boot me off of their server at the exact moment that they emailed me back with the code. I found this out because my site went down late Friday. SURPRISE! I emailed my new server and asked them when my site would be back up. They of course emailed me back with basically “What site?” It was then that I learned that websites are not magic windows but actual files that need to be copied onto the new server while the old server still supports them “to ensure uninterrupted website service”.

Picard Facepalm Star Trek Fail

I Thought That Free Migration Meant From One Writing Platform To Another ie Blogger to WordPress

Anyone with any shred of computer knowledge is perfectly within their right to be laughing their ass off at me right now. I honestly cannot believe that I was so stupid except that I was so focused moving writing platforms that I had blinders on regarding the bigger picture of the server move. No it turns out that “migration” refers to those precious website files and moving them to the new server. This is important because as soon as you leave a host, they take all of your files and feed them to the troll that lives under the bridge and they are gone forever. And I had not moved my files.
Double Facepalm Star Trek Fail

I Assumed That The Live Chat Help Was More Than a Guy Typing With One Hand While Whacking Off With the Other

I immediately panicked and went to my new host site and clicked on the live help. I explained that I was a moron and realized that I changed servers before migrating my site and to please tell me that I didn’t lose my site forever. He asked my site name and then came back to tell me to submit a support ticket and disconnected me. I let the rudeness roll and sent an email to support apologizing for being a moron and asking how I could fix this. I was pleasantly surprised to get an answer after a few minutes but when I opened the email I saw that it was just to tell me to contact my old company. Fine, that makes sense.

I went to my old server site and tried to log in but it told me that my password didn’t work and that I could blow it. I politely asked to have my password emailed to me and received an email telling me that I could stick my password where the sun don’t shine would have to contact my new server company. What? I had no idea why my new company would have my old company password.

I replied to my new company’s email relaying this and they said that was because they were my server now. Well no fucking shit. I again got on Live Chat where the same guy asked for my ticket number and then told me to email customer support. I asked him if he couldn’t look at my ticket himself since he asked for the number and he replied, “No I can not.” and then disconnected me again.
Triple Facepalm Star Trek Fail
I immediately signed back on and as soon as he answered I replied that “can not is spelled cannot unless the not is part of another construction” and then I disconnected him.¬†And let me just say here that I understand that computer people must want to pull their hair out when it comes to deal with computer-illiterate morons like me all day but this asshole didn’t even give me a chance before he hung up on me.

As a last ditch effort I emailed Google support since they overwrite Blogger and was told that I had to email the server company (my old company). So basically we were all playing Play The Kat.

Finally I did what I always do and fixed the problem my fucking self. It meant staying up for 24 hours straight on the computer to teach myself Internet protocol suite and then moving my site files–which I actually had backed up because I’m a fucking rockstar though they were not in the correct format to upload directly to a server.

So all of that bullshit said, my new site is up. Just please excuse my site’s temporary appearance because not only do I have to work my other job, but my brain’s server is fried.

My Two Favorite Animals & My Big-Mistake Son (An Interactive Post!)

As is typical in most doctor’s offices, the staff at my second job is made of all females with the exception of one male whom I adore. Oliver is fourteen years younger than I am so I tell them I’m technically old enough to be his mother.

“You can’t leave, Oliver! You’re like a son to me!” I told him when he announced that he would be leaving our office since he was transferring to college near Trenton.
He laughed.
“It’s not funny! You’re my son, Oliver! You know why? Because we’re family!” I insisted bear-hugging him until his face started to turn purple.

This might sound like I’m the antagonist in our parental relationship but this is not the case. I’m as innocent as a baby shark lamb. Take our exchange from a few weeks ago. I was at work minding my own business when Oliver came up and demanded that I name my favorite animal and then give three reasons why they are my favorite.

Rage face

My typical expression during these conversations with my brat “son”.

“Why?” I asked him looking up from the chart that I was prepping and crooked an eyebrow at him.
“It’s a game.”
I gave him a half-lidded stare.
“You don’t have anything better to do? Aren’t there charts that need to be filed?” I lectured like the Big-Mistake Mother that I am.
“They’re all done. Just answer the question. It’s fun!”
“Fine,” I sighed. “I like horses, but if it came down to it I guess dogs in general are my favorite animals.”
“And what are three reasons that like them?”
“Because they are loving and loyal and fun to play with.” I turned my attention back to my stack of charts.
“Alright, and what’s your second favorite?”
I threw my hands in the air and shook my head. “I have to give you another?”
“Yeah, just one more,” he insisted.
“Okay, then I’ll go back to horses. And I like them because they are beautiful and graceful and strong.” I added before he could ask for my three reasons.

[Pauses story here]

Here comes the interactive portion of the post! I’ll pause and let you think of your two favorite animals and the three reasons that you like each of them! FUN FUN FUN!

[Continues story]

“Ha!” Oliver snickered.
“What?” I demanded.
“Well I just learned in Psychology that the first animal that you name possess the qualities that you look for in a mate. And the second animal is how you see yourself.”
“No it doesn’t! You made this up!” I swatted him with the chart in my hand.
“No really! We did the exercise today!” he insisted. Then he took a step back and smirked. “So you think you’re beautiful, graceful and strong. You are really conceited, Kat!”
He took off down the hall before I could smack him again.
“This game sucks and you are a brat!” I snarled at his retreating ass.

Yes, I’m definitely going to miss my “son”.

Everclear and Preparation H

If you’re scratching your head already at the title then let me blow your mind a little more by telling you that this is yet another post that has to do with my dog.

Welcome to my life.

The day after the Waterworld disaster in my kitchen–(it’s funny how I added “disaster” after Waterworld, isn’t it? As if it wasn’t already understood that anything referencing a Kevin Costner film is a disaster)–my brother mentioned to me that Kira kept scooting around the carpet. He thought that it was gross yet hilarious, while I on the other hand thought that it was gross yet upsetting because I knew that this meant that there was something wrong with her rear end, namely that she needed to have her anal glands expressed.

ocd dog

I feel their pain.

If you’re a dog owner then you are already familiar with this most pleasant aspect of dog care and if you are not then I’m not going to traumatize you with the disgusting explanation. Either way I’m going to skip over the wretched details and flash forward to this weekend when Kira was continuing to scoop despite no longer having a clinical reason to do this because, you see, my dog has friggin’ OCD. The problem with this obsessive compulsive scooting was that she was starting to really irritate herself. (Again going to skip the details though my brother nearly busted a gut and managed to take a picture of me wrestling with Kira to examine her rear AND NO I AM NOT SHARING IT HERE BECAUSE YOU ARE ALREADY WAY TOO JEALOUS OF MY ROCKSTAR LIFE.)

My mother luckily helped to hold Kira still as I inflicted this indignation on her. “Maybe you should put some Preparation H on her,” my mother said.

“Is there any in the house?” I asked because despite my variety of health issues, I have never had the need for such a medication. (And that’s your TMI moment for today, peeps.)

“I don’t think so. Dad used witch hazel.”

“Oh this is going to be fun,” I sneered, “buying hemorrhoid cream for my dog.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “It’s not a big deal. A lot of people need it.”

“But I do not! People are going to think I have ass problems!” I whined because that’s how mature I am.

“People aren’t going to think anything!” my mother insisted.

“Yes they will!” I said, again demonstrating incredible poise and maturity. Then a light went on in my brain and I gasped with glee. “Oh wait! They could just think that I’m a cokehead!”

“What?” My mother gave me her usual incredulous look.

“Yeah, cokeheads put Preparation H in their nostrils to reduce the swelling from snorting that shit,” I told her.

“How do you even know that?” she shook her head.

“How do you not?” I asked. I paused for a second. “Actually you’re right, I don’t know how I know that, but that’s the fun of living in my brain; even I don’t know what I’m going to say until it flies out of my face.”

“So you would rather someone thought you were on drugs than you had hemorrhoids,” Mumma grimaced.

“Yes. Though to be fair many people already assume that I am.”

preparation h, old adsAfter consulting with a retired vet though it was decided that hydrocortisone would be a better option. Unfortunately I was out of this, so I had to run to the store anyway. While I was picking up the hydrocortisone I remembered that I needed to get dental wipes for Kira’s teeth, too. After the nightmare of her dental cleaning I’m taking pains to keep her teeth healthy.

I picked up the jar of doggy dental wipes, looked at the list of ingredients and then placed it back on the shelf met my mother at the checkout.

“We have to stop at the liquor store,” I told her. “I need some Everclear.”

My mother looked at me since she knew that after my Smurf adventure I was never, ever touching that shit again.

“It’s for Kira.”

Again she just looked.

“Yes I was going to get her dental wipes but the ingredients were water and grain alcohol, so I’ll just get her some Everclear.”

“Preparation H and Everclear,” my mother shook her head. “You really are living like a rockstar.”

“My dog is anyway.”

(AFTER NOTE: I did not give my dog Everclear.)

(AFTER NOTE 2: I have since been told that people also use Preparation H is also used for wrinkles which resulted it another discussion about how I knew that drug addicts shove it up their nose but not that people use it for that.)

Also if you want to see the rockstar Kira in action, here is our latest (and last) BarkBox video:

Once Again I Just Shake My Head and Say “This is my Life”

Many of you are well acquainted with my dog, Kira, in fact I’m fairly certain that the reason most people watch my youtube videos is because they usually feature a Kira cameo–and I don’t blame you because she’s fucking adorable and hilarious.

Kira features a lot because she is “my” dog, but we do however have our “family” dog named Lily. Unlike Kira, Lily is very friendly and easygoing and 99.5% of the time is perfectly well-behaved, so she also doesn’t give me as much story material as does my Brat-skimo.

There is of course that .5% though…

westhighland terrier, lily

Lily. She looks so innocent.

Since I had my own medical issues to address last Monday I decided to make it a full Doctor Day and have Kira and Lily visit the vet as well. A trip to the vet is always extremely stressful because Kira–who is a rescue dog that had been abused–hates going to the vet with a passion. I know that most dogs hate the vet but Kira literally screams–screams that sound like a fucking human being–as soon as the vet touches her. While Kira’s vet is used to her dramatics and very good with handling her, my aunt suggested a mobile vet service that she used who comes to the house might be less stressful. I didn’t hold much hope, but I decided to give it a shot.

As soon as the vet arrived at the house, Kira began barking her face off. I explained Kira’s history to the vet and that, while I was having both dogs examined, Kira was the reason that I was trying an in-house visit. The vet suggested that she examine Lily first thinking that if Kira saw that Lily was okay that she wouldn’t be as scared. This sounded like a good idea at the time.

Lily trotted over to the vet, sniffing and wagging her tail, and didn’t object when the vet picked her up. Lily did begin to shake a little when she was placed on the mobile table but stayed fairly still as the vet examined her. She did begin to squirm when it was time to have her blood drawn but the vet tech held her still without too much fuss. I went over to praise Lily whenever I could but unfortunately Kira’s barking only got worse when she saw the vet handling her Lily and it was all that I could do to keep her quiet. Even after I gated Kira in the other room she was causing a ruckus. Finally the vet was finished except she said that Lily’s nails needed to be cut. I have tried many a time to cut Lily’s nails, but unlike Kira who I trained since puppyhood to hold still for a pedicure, Lily fights so furiously that I can’t do it. I told the vet to go for it but I would understand if she wasn’t able to trim Lily’s nails.

The vet picked up the nail clippers and I actually saw the words “Oh hell no!” form in Lily’s eyes. She immediately began squirming, thrashing and putting up such a fight that you would think that the vet was trying to cut her paws off. The vet tech was nearly laying on top of Lily to hold her still and it still wasn’t working. The vet suggested that she hold Lily in her arms and the tech cut the nails since she was faster. Lily squirmed furiously but the vet held her tightly enough that the tech trimmed her two front paws fairly quickly. HOWEVER, the moment that the vet tech moved to touch Lily’s back paws, Lily lost control of her bowels. This is unfortunately not unusual for an animal to do under stress. What is unusual though is for the animal to lose her bowels with such fervor that the poo becomes airborne and hits the vet tech in the chest.

That’s right, friends: my dog projectile shat.
She apparently has missiles in her ass and fired two at the tech as soon as she was within range.

The vet, the tech and I and just stared at each other for a moment during which Lily–who was apparently quite pleased with herself–held still. Would that we had taken that opportunity to finish the pedicure because at that moment Kira broke through the baby gate in an attempt to save her Lily and all hell broke lose. Lily redoubled her squirming efforts, Kira barked and galloped around the table, and I began to calculate just how much Tequila I was going to need after this was over.

The answer was “a lot”.

And the real kicker of it? When it was Kira’s turn to be examined, despite being in her own home, she still screamed like a fucking banshee when the vet touched her.

Verdict? Number 26 on The List of Shameless Shit: Make a mistake.

The Hoo-Ha Freezes in Hell AKA The Polar Bear Plunge Recap!

freezing unmentionables, frostbite on my unmentionablesWell, we did it. We plunged into the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of January.

And the verdict of it is? It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It definitely helped that the air temperature was 46 degrees–and I am extremely grateful that God smiled on our stupid asses and waited until this week to send the current deep freeze which we are experiencing on the US east coast–but that said, it’s still no picnic to be standing on a New Jersey beach in nothing but a bathing suit in the middle of Winter.

I woke up on Plunge Day and my nerves immediately started twisting my guts into knots. The first thing that I did was yank my hair into a set of messy pony tails because when you are going to plunge into a cold ocean you really don’t give a fuck about the world seeing you looking like the dirtbag that you really are.

polar bear plunge wildwoodAfter a very *ahem* entertaining hour and a forty minute drive to the shore, my mother, brother, Jewels and I arrived at the check-in point at the Wildwood Convention Center. I noticed that I was shaking–not unusual for me with my arrhythmia–but I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t my blood sugar dropping so I crammed a piece of a bagel into my face despite my jumping tummy. Finally at 12:30, the organizers began to herd us all out to the beach. Now, the thing that I don’t like about Wildwood is that the beach is hella long–you have a decent hike to get to the water line–so I’m not surprised that they made us move out that early since the Plunge was at 1pm sharp. The problem with this was that you had half an hour of just chilling freezing on a beach, staring at the water and thinking ‘what the fuck am I doing?‘.

The plungers had their own roped off area where we were gathered into our huge group to countdown and then take off for our freezing Hell together. I had noticed in our “Plunge Packet” of info that it suggested that if it was your first plunge to not go near the front of the group so that you could go into the water at your own pace… so who wants to guess where we stationed ourselves in the group? Yup. Right near the front.

polar bear plunge wildwoodIn typical Kat fashion, my countdown was off and as I was screaming “Four!” the pack started taking off. Nonetheless I grabbed Jewels’ hand and began running, too. I’ll be honest and say that I kinda, sorta don’t remember details about the run because I was so jacked on adrenaline and just determined to get as far into the ocean as I could before cold/nerves/my heart gave out that I went on auto-pilot. I remember screaming as we approached the water at full speed. I remember losing my flip flops as soon as we entered the water and not even considering to stop and pick them up. And then the next thing I knew the waves were crashing around my waist and I was only a few feet from the wall of life guards stationed in the ocean at chest height to keep the plungers from going too far.

I’d made it!

I turned around to Jewels, held my fingers up to do a “1, 2, 3!”, grabbed my nose and then dropped my full body into the water as a swell came. As soon as I stood back up, I started to feel dizzy and was having trouble breathing. Jewels had stood up too but since she couldn’t feel her feet she ended up falling back into the water for a second dip. She managed to gain her balance and we started trudging back to the beach. I fucking hate admitting this but I was really struggling and it was only the thought that if I passed out that it would be into freezing water that kept me upright. Jewels may not have known it at the time, but she was holding me up during our celebration hug when got to the shore. The good news though? When you are about to pass out you feel warm so that when we reached the beach, while most people were beating it for the towels and robes, I was just like “Nah, I’m good, don’t need the towel right now”. I eventually did wrap myself up and then we began the hike back to the convention center where they would have lunch for us.

When we reached the ramp to get onto the boardwalk there was a huge clot of people made up of both plungers and spectators making their way on the boards.
“I think that if you didn’t plunge that you should have to wait and let us dripping wet people go first!” I complained to Jewels.
A lady in front of us who was bundled in a hat, gloves and jacket turned around and stepped aside so that we could walk ahead of her. I was shocked because I spout off so much goofy shit that I’m used to people not taking me seriously, so I felt like a jerk and started stammering and apologizing. The woman was really, really sweet though and just smiled and told me that I was completely right. (I still felt like an ass though.)

The food at the lunch was, um, rather… not good. But it was food and it was warm and it as nice of them to provide us with lunch in the first place so I didn’t complain–especially because each plunger could bring a guest to eat for free, too. While we were eating the Special Olympics athletes came on the stage and did a group bow to say thank you, and if the chicken soup didn’t warm you up then that certainly did.

Believe it or not, even though this entry is long, this is actually the condensed account of The Polar Bear Plunge. There was so much that happened, and it was just such an incredibly fun experience. To help convey more of what it was like, we shot a lot of video and then put it all together into a mini movie. It’s long, but I think it’s entertaining enough to get you through 17 minutes. ūüėČ (FYI, watch to the end for an Easter egg–especially if you’re a fan of my dog, Kira.)

Finally, another huge thank you to our supporters. I’ll be putting your links in my sidebar very soon!

PS-This is so Number 11 on my List of Shameless Shit: “Dress to show some skin” because putting on a bathing suit is daunting enough, but you have to be completely shameless to put one on in the Winter when you’re pale and not only at your “Winter weight” but at your “writer weight” where you have been too busy with edits to hit the gym. Not. Attractive.

The Tale of The Flaming Buns

Okay, I admit it: I have a tendency to torture myself. Whether it’s setting my own broken hand, starving myself in a seven day detox or getting all of the hair ripped off of my nethers in a Jewish Community Center, I have a special proclivity for putting myself through some ridiculous shit. I would like to point out, however, that in every most cases I have a legit reason for torturing myself. For example I was forced by a lack of medical attention to set my own hand and the detox was bolster my health and the Brazilian wax was necessary because it was the start of swimsuit season.

See? Good reasons for insanity in all most cases. And such it is too with The Flaming Buns that I had a good reason for torturing myself.

If you’ve watched my videos on youtube then you can probably tell that I’m constantly sniffling between perpetual allergies and/or a cold. One of the things that really sucks about this–aside from the obvious abundance of snot–is that because of my cardiac issues I’m not supposed to take regular allergy or cold medicine so I usually just suffer through it. However the other day I was scrolling through Pinterest–where all good ideas come from–and I found a homeopathic cold remedy in the form of a Ginger detox bath which promised to help you sweat out your afflictions. The next thing I knew I was grabbing my keys to make a trip to the supermarket.

“Where are you going? It’s dark out!” my mother exclaimed as I headed toward the front door. (My mother is from the school of thought that females should not go out after twilight or they will surely be accosted by ghoulies, beasties and long-legged nasties.)
“To get some ground ginger,” I replied.
“Why do you need ground ginger at 9:30 at night?”
“Because I’m going to bathe in it.”
And as she is so used to doing, my mother just accepted that I had said something inane.

After aquiring the ground ginger without being kidnapped–though I told my mother that I fought off a hooligan who tried to shiv me and an old man who offered me candy–I dug the baking soda out of the cupboard and went upstairs to brew a Gingered Kat Stew.

I ran the tub full of hot water, added the ginger which turned the water a disgusting shade of brown, shook approximately a third of a cup of baking soda into the mix, eased myself into the mess, grabbed a book and let myself cook. It only took about ten minutes before I started to sweat but you’re supposed to soak for at least forty minutes to get the full effect of the ginger so I continued to soak and read my book.

Pikachu Spanking gifI’m not sure exactly when it happened but at some point I looked up from my book and realized that my ass was hot–and not “hot” as in “cute”, “hot” as in “I feel like I’m sitting in a vat of salsa”. While I had been occasionally swishing the water around in the tub, a healthy amount of the ginger had settled to the bottom and I found that I was sitting in a layer of pure ginger. I swished the water around some more but it was too late; my buns were officially on fire. It wasn’t exactly painful though so I went back to reading and sweated out the remainder of the time, however by the time I got out of the tub, my ass was numb. It was one of the most fucking bizarre sensations I have ever experienced… and of course I made worse by smacking myself and then laughing like a bloody lunatic because I didn’t feel anything when I did it and my mind instantly made a dozen filthy jokes. But aside from amusing the hell out of me, I will say that this ginger soak did actually clear up my stuffy, sniffly nose, and not only that, but I went to sleep soon after I got out of the bath and didn’t wake up once during the night, which is very rare for me.

polar plunge logoAnd in a hilarious turn of irony my next tale of maschicsm is already in the works except that instead of burning ass, I’m going to be freezing it off. Tomorrow, 1/19/13, I’m going to be jumping into the semi-freezing Atlantic Ocean with my Gal-Friday of insanity, Jewels, and my brother Mike (known on here as “Gator”). Again there is logical reason for this madness and we are not arbitrarily jumping for my hypothermic fun of it but because we joined the Polar Bear Plunge to benefit the Special Olympics. Jewels and I have already our minimum donation goals thanks to some brilliant peeps who I’ll be linking to their blogs/twitters as my featured Super Peeps next month, but my brother hasn’t reached his goal yet, so I’m extending my thanks of pimping to anyone who contributes to his goal, too. For a minimum donation of 5 bucks toward Gator’s/Mike’s goal, I’ll shout you out in the post I do about the Plunge and also have the link to your blog on my sidebar in all of its glory for thirty days (or more usually).

But before you think that I’ve gone soft and am helping my brother because I’m a nice person or something, let me clarify that by donating to my brother you are actually still helping me because if Gator/Mike doesn’t reach his goal, he can’t plunge and I will feel much better about plunging into icy water if I can look over and laugh at my brother’s freezing ass.

Finally I wanted to add that by donating, not only will you be helping me, but you will also get bragging rights that you personally helped me in my latest tale of what-the-fuckery.

How can you resist that, right?

(And this is Number 25 on the List of Shameless Shit: Ask for help.)

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.

Fah La La La La, Fah Blah Blah Blah!

I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news, my dear peeps.

The bad news is that I got food poisoning and despite what some people might think, it doesn’t make the holidays bright.

The good news is…

Actually NOTHING!

This fucking blows!¬†Literally! I don’t know what bacteria it was which invaded my darling body, but whatever it was, said body attacked it with extreme prejudice, throwing an unholy fit and calling for mass evacuation of all cavities!¬†It was very fucking rude too because I had planned on renting the food I had eaten for a little longer than two hours!

Anyway, for some reason I get the urge to make cartoons when I’m sick, like how I made this little gem back when I had the flu in February, so you get to hear the “Tale of the Turntail Tuna” in comic form.

STORY TIEMZ!

Once upon a time there was a girl named Kat who was very excited to be going out with her friend, Jewels.

food poisoning comic

Jewels and Kat went to a cute li’l “pop shop” and ordered a sumptuous feast complete with fries, a large tuna sandwich, and milk shakes for dessert.

Food poisoning comic panel 2

About half an hour after finishing their food, Kat began to notice a rumbling in her tummy.

Food poisoning comic panel 3

Kat continued to ignore the obvious disturbance in the force because, as has been stated in previous Stupid Kat Tricks, she has issues with denial.  (Also in this case, she really wanted to catch up with her friend, Jewels.)

Food poisoning comic panel 4

She did wonder if she had suddenly fallen in an Alien movie.  Kat only hoped that it was the first or second Alien, since the third and fourth movies sucked.

Food poisoning comic panel 5

After a couple of hours, Kat and Jewels decided to head back to her place to chat some more.

Food poisoning comic panel 6

As soon as they reached Kat’s apartment though, Kat was forced to make a mad dash for the loo.¬† She emerged after a while, disheveled and clammy, but sure that the torture would pass and that she would be free to continue the visit with Jewels.

Food poisoning comic panel 7

The girls then agreed to cut their visit short and catch up again after Christmas.  After Jewels left Kat calmly admitted to herself that her tummy hurt a bit.

Food poisoning comic panel 8

Of course, her low blood pressure and parasympathetic response to adrenaline meant that she blacked out a few times from the excruciating pain.¬† Kat called her aunt for help (shocking since Kat doesn’t ask for help) and to bring her medication (double shocking since Kat has an aversion to medicines).

Food poisoning comic panel 9

(FUN BONUS FACT! Both residents of Kat’s abode–herself and her dog–can now lay claim to having thrown up on the carpet!)

Kat finally came up with a logical and mature solution to her battle with food poisoning.

Food poisoning comic panel 10

Her aunt disagreed with this solution; she got Kat Gatorade instead.

The End.

Epilogue

I’m doing much better now.

Also?¬† If this entry doesn’t satisfy number 19: Share details of a bodily function or fluid on my List of Shameless Shit, then I don’t know what would.

**All of these ridiculous pictures were created at SP-Studio.