“Lost Pet” posters break my heart.

Even when they’re cats.

I’m serious! You may remember I lived with a cat for like three years, and her name was Corona, and we had a love-hate relationship. One time, when I was home alone, she saw a chipmunk scurry across the back porch and busted clear through the screen door, because NATURE, I guess. I searched high and low along the apartment complex, thinking of how the hell I was going to tell my boyfriend I had lost his beloved feline. (The cat was his baby. I used that in arguments, like, “If you don’t take out the garbage, I’m going to shave your cat!” …I’m going to make a great wife someday.) Whilst walking around I came across another black-and-white cat, seemingly a stray, and thought, in my irrational, panic-stricken mind: “Maybe he won’t know the difference?”

"You spray-painted his tail to make him look like Jinxy, didn't you, Focker?" #deniroface

I found her less than fifteen minutes later, lounging lazily one building down from ours. I should have known better - she was pretty tubby and had no desire to run long distances. Corona was like a feline version of Roseanne.

Still,  a few weeks after my ex and I broke up, he called to tell me she had died, and I BAWLED into the phone - things like, “SH- SHE L-LOVED YOU, SO MUCH, *snooorrfffle*.”

That was my first thought when I found this posted outside my house:

But, you guys? The cat’s name is RUNAWAY.

…..

The cat is merely LIVING OUT ITS DESTINY.

I felt bad for making this joke (BUT IT WRITES ITSELF!), so I thought the best thing to do would be to make a “Runaway” Playlist? Here it is on Spotify, featuring my favorite “Runaway” songs and mostly songs I didn’t know existed, but I effing love a theme.

Let’s all listen to it until Runaway comes home from her adventure, like Sassy from Homeward Bound. (Who was VOICED by ROSEANNE! FULL CIRCLE!) (Sally Field. She was voiced by Sally Field. Not sure why I thought that.)

THE END!

It probably won’t surprise you to know that I don’t frequent “The Clubs.” Now, don’t confuse this with me not dancing in public. Will I make a semi-annual trek to Broad Ripple to yell at my DJ friend to play “P.Y.T”? Yes. Will my friends and I slither around to “Beast of Burden” at the local dive bar? Yes. But you won’t often see me paying a cover, or walking in stilettos.

I knew I was in trouble when I went to this bridal shower yesterday and all the girls were talking about what little black dresses they were wearing when we were going out later that night. I could only bring my little black skirt to the table, and I had to rack my brain to come up with that. If you have to ask yourself, “Do I have anything slutty enough to wear out to a club?”, you probably don’t belong in said club.

So there I was, standing at the bar in a line with these gorgeous women clad in black, me with my hoochie striped mini skirt from Target. “What, you didn’t get the memo about the black?” a dude at the bar shouted over the music. I wanted to punch him in the face. Instead, I just yelled back, “I DON’T PLAY BY ANYBODY’S RULES!”

I need to stop internalizing this shit and then projecting it all across my face. I’m putting out SOME vibe I’m not meaning to. Here’s how I know this:

1) At some point in the night some stranger dude came up to me and said,”You know who you remind me of?” (This never ends well, does it? Isn’t the doppelganger almost always someone who is kind of offensive to you? How does that happen?) He goes on: “You know the lead singer from that band from the 90s? Nirvana?” (It was weird to me that he said “That Band from the 90s, and not just, NIRVANA,” but this kid was probably BORN in the 90s, so fuck him.) “I REMIND YOU OF KURT COBAIN?!” I exclaim. “No, no, his WIFE,” he explains.

Oh.

….

“COURTNEY LOVE? I remind you of Courtney Love?”

He nodded.

“Courtney Love is a forty-something heroin addict, and I am a twenty-something alcoholic, SIR. BIG DIFFERENCE. HUGE.”

2) I was aggressively hit on by not one, but TWO lesbians?

A lesbian friend once told me that I look straight from the get-go. (This was the first time I had stepped foot into a gay bar, and I asked her something ignorant like, “Do you think the women will think I’m a lesbian just because I’m here?” Hey, I grew up in suburbia.) I should have asked her what that meant, that I gave off some “straight” vibe, or maybe because I was just ridiculously high maintenance at that time, surely I was doing it for the attention of dudes? I don’t know. I don’t claim to understand all of that. Apparently I’m not like that anymore, which is probably a good thing.

To be fair, one of the chicks was gorgeous — much better-looking than any of the guys I talked to last night.

So basically what I’m saying is that I’m a lesbian now.

KIDDING, #fellas.

One of my roommates has ringworm.

This isn’t my dog. This is Bess’s dog, Humphrey Bogart.

Bogie.

Yes, “Bogie” is what we yell when he chews things he shouldn’t. And barks at things he shouldn’t. And jumps on things he shouldn’t. Etc, etc. This happens often.

I suppose you could call him my fur nephew. I technically have no responsibilities to this dog, but if Bess is gone for an evening I’ll take him on walks and try to train him. I suppose we can throw that in quotes - “train.” So far, I keep trying Cesar Milan Dog Whisperer shit, where you form your hand into a kind of claw (supposedly mimicking a mother dog’s mouth/teeth) and poke/correct him with a “shh!” sound. This does not work.

Me: “SHHT!” (poke)

Bogie: ”HAAAAND! I LOVE HAAAANDS!”  *gumgumgum*

I am not a pack leader.

He’s also part German Shepherd, so he’s becoming a little bit of an ankle biter as he tries to “herd” us from room to room. That’s the worst.

I want to take him to the dog park to meet dudes, but I can’t, ON ACCOUNT OF THE RINGWORM. He also can’t start obedience training until that gets cleared up. So until that happens, Bess and I are trying to “parent” him consistently, and making sure we discipline him similarly, which is like raising a child, which is not clearing up those lesbian rumors.

He’s such a little shit, but sometimes I can tell that he’s going to be the sweetest dog. The other day, I was washing my face, and he wandered into the bathroom, oddly serene. I sat on the floor and he just sat there, stoic, as I patted him on the head, and - it was weird - he looked at me directly in the eyes and I…I saw the dog he was going to be. He’ll be a scrappy little companion, with the best of doggy spirits.

I scratched him behind the ears.

“Good boy,” I said quietly.

And then he burped in my face.

How’s that for a title, huh? Jesus.

We’re on Day 27 of NaBloPoMo, and some nights the ol’ idea factory is lookin’ pretty spare. If you have anything you want me to write about…PUT EM IN THE COMMENTS, ‘cuz SERIOUSLY. DAY TWENTY-SEVEN.

—————————————————-

Tuesday didn’t start so good. . . .

I wasn’t even sleeping. I was just watching the Demetri Martin special on Netflix when I decided to hit the hay, sat up, and in a split second realized - oh, I actually feel really close to the edge of the bewwwaaaahhhhoooofff. I had my MacBook in my hands, and so instead of catching myself, I held it up like a child, like, “NOOOO NOT MAH BAYE-BEEEE” (I’m Claire from Lost in this scenario.) Who needs a shoulder, or a hip? Not me.

It was just after midnight, so I figured Tuesday had it in for me. But then I heard “Night Moves” on my morning commute, followed by “Pass the Dutchie.” (You know - on the left hand side.)

BUT IT GOT EVEN BETTER:

I MADE A FAYGO ROCK ‘N RYE FLOAT, PEOPLE:

When’s the last time you had effing FAYGO ROCK ‘N RYE. A DECADE, RIGHT? This float was pretty  boss.

OR HOW ABOUT THIS?

We’re getting close to Laundry Day, and by close, I mean, every article of clothing I own is strewn about, dirty. Tonight my jammies had to come from the recesses of my closet, from the Stack of Shirts that I No Longer Wear But Keep Carting Around with Me with Each Move For Some Reason.

AND LOOK WHAT I FOUND:

AW YEAH.

A couple people have asked me where I pulled this quote on my facebook profile…

on my homemade valentine’s day card,

i would write I LIKE YOU in sparkles and glue,

only my handwriting is so bad,

all my K’s look like V’s,

but we decide that’s better anyway — I LIVE YOU.

It’s from a slam poem (I’m serious) by Big Poppa E called, Falling in Like.

No.

Not tonight.

Katie and I are holed up on the couch. We’re tired. We’re stressed. We’re nursing our neuroses.

We’re cracking open the wine,

drinking it from those collector’s holiday glasses you’d get at Long John Silvers in the early 90s.

I get the feeling a lot of us are.