Caturday 4/20/13

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There aren’t a whole lot of surefire things in this life, but of one thing I am certain: Having cats (plural) is not a man magnet.

Let me repeat: Cats are man repellers.

Porque? I’ll tell you.

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5 Reasons Men Avoid Women with Cats

  1. Cats Never Die – Oh. New girlfriend’s got a kitten? And you hate it? Hold on to your butt, buddy, because Skittles is probably gonna be around to see your grandkids. The oldest living cat according to Guinness is 24 years old, but Wikipedia (the gold standard for accurate, hard-hitting facts) says Creme Puff lived to be 38. So don’t be surprised if you hear unofficial reports from people with 30- and 35-year-old cats. Because cats are immortal. Look at it this way. I’m 27. Ralph and Weaz will live well into their 30s because I will stop at nothing short of giving them my own organs to keep them alive. So yeah, I’ll be Caturday-ing right on into retirement. Deal with it. Some may claim a long feline life expectancy is thanks to a cat’s mythical 9 lives, but I will tell you the truth: Cats never die because their lunatic owners won’t let them.
  2. Cats are Not Nice – When you enter into a relationship with already established dependents (like someone already has kids or a dog or something else you have to feed on the regular), it is assumed that disapproval from any one of the aforementioned dependents is grounds for a breakup. File this one under “deal breakers” along with Lives With Parents and Wears Crocs. What I’m saying is if I’m interested in a guy and his dog hates me, I’m out. The advantage here is that it’s really easy to get a dog to like you because dogs aren’t very discerning and will show affection to most living things with access to treats. Cats, however, are pretty hard to impress. I know this because I adopted Weaz straight outta the womb and still she will wake me up at 4am just because she can. So if you think you’re gonna waltz up into some girl’s life and her cat will be on board just because you’re in love, think again. That cat hates you as much as you hate it. Enjoy your next 40 years together.
  3. Cats Don’t Need You – Ralph is a MF lion. She’s a street-smart, hardened stray who thinks she’s a goddamn lion. She catches bugs in midair with one swipe and ninja sneak attacks Weaz on the daily. That I fill her bowl with food is of little concern to her overall wellbeing. She could make it on her own hustling catnip in 4th Ward. Excluding times when Weaz gets stuck in cabinets, closets and assorted other tight spaces, even she doesn’t really need me to survive. So if you, Prince Charming, think you’re here sweep a cat-owning woman off her damsel-in-distressed feet, you’ll become painfully aware that, just like her cats, babygirl don’t need no man.
  4. Cats Multiply – Much like Lays potato chips, you can never have just one cat. A girl with one cat is what I like to call “pre-pluralized.” When you get fired you say you’re “in between jobs” because you’re actively on the hunt for your next. When you have one cat, you’re “in between cats.” A girl with one cat may not even realize it, but I promise you she is actively on the hunt for her next one… or eight.
  5. Like Pet, Like Owner – You know how in 101 Dalmations they show a montage of a bunch of owners who look like their dogs? That. Sort of. I’m not saying I look like Ralphie (though I’d gladly accept the compliment), but I am saying that cat owners are cat-like. And since we’ve already established that cats are mean and independent, you see where I’m going with this analogy.

So imagine my surprise when a real life man approached me the other day with this never-before-heard line:

“Your cat shirt is awesome.”

Yeah, I was wearing a cat t-shirt in public. That’s not the point. The point is that a man noticed it and liked it. Come again?

Upon closer inspection, this man is an anomaly. Look at his laser-cat hat:

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And so the fact still remains: cats repel men (excluding those wearing laser-cat hats).

Ralph and Weaz are on Twitter

You knew this day would come. Ralph and Weaz are all up on the tweeter. They spend most of their time talking to @McDonalds and I’m not kidding. Go follow.

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Caturday 4/13/13

 

I’m Caturday-ing from my phone because the Internet hasn’t worked in my apartment for a week. Also because I’ve been in my car all day. Also I want to vscocam1180point out that all my Polo shirt-clad neighbors are piling into cabs to head Uptown and I’m making Brussels sprouts.

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OK THEN.

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Lerp derp.

Today I went to visit my grandparents because my mom is in town and it happens to be her birthday.

Weaz made cupcakes:

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I got my crazy cat lady thing from my grandmother, by the way. She has two right now. I thank her for this genetic trait. I feel it gives me an evolutionary edge. Or something.

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That is all.

Caturday 4/6/13

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Last night I had a Taco Party. I kind of felt like it was my triumphant return to the human social world since my hibernation in a cocoon of depression and stress began back in September. I was wrong. Everyone just came to see the cats.

There was tequila and a taco bar and a MF pinata and do you want to know where everyone was? On my bedroom floor trying to catch a glimpse of the (in)famous Ralph and Weaz.

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This is why these people are my friends. Because I only let into my inner circle those who can match my crazy, loop for loop. (I seriously considered putting Twitter handles over each ass so you can identify the crazies, but I will spare them.)

LOOK at them trying to lure Weaz out with barbacoa…

Weaz Meat Trap

Ninja Cats

I was a little embarrassed by their behavior, actually. They’re usually quite social. But they also usually aren’t in a room full of 20 people and mariachi music and pinata bashing. So I’ll give them that.

In all, the Taco Party was far more successful than the Shark Party, which–as you may recall–no one attended because I put the wrong date on the invitation. It also ended with me giving the heimlich to dislodge a pretzel from someone’s throat. So… Taco Party wins.

Caturday 3/30/13

Happy un-groomed Caturday.

I tried to take the cats for their annual haircut yesterday and once again got a call from the groomer that went something like this:

Groomer: Yeah, so Ralphie…
Me: I know.
Groomer: She drew blood.
Me: I know.
Groomer: Today’s just not her day.
Me: Don’t do this to me.
Groomer: Weasel will be ready in an hour. I’m not touching Ralphie.

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So she still looks like this:

Look at her stupid hair. Can’t see it? Don’t worry; it’s all over my clothes.

Weaz cooperated so she’s straight chilling watching Saturday Night Live.

This was, of course, after listening to her wail from the carrier for an hour.

This is the second time Ralphie has gone and not been groomed and literally the last time I take either one of them. It’s entirely too much stress and anxiety. For me.

Adam suggested Nyquil-ing Ralphie, but I kind of think we’d be better off sedating me. It’d be easier for all parties involved.

For the record: I will never give Ralphie Nyquil. Or Robutussin. And neither will Adam. He’s too busy pulling his labradoodle out of fountains anyway.

HAHA WAY TO GO OLIVER.

Caturday 3/23/13

Happy WHERE THE HELL IS SPRING Caturday.

Doesn’t Ralph look like a boss in this picture? It’s because she is.

It’s a grey, rainy (read: miserable) day in Charlotte so I’m laying in my bed with two cats trying to figure out how we can track down and kill that lying sack of groundhog that told us spring was on its way.

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WE GET IT, RODENT.

I got all whiny this morning demanding a “Katie day” and convincing myself I would use it to clean my house and go shopping for an entirely new wardrobe because I hate everything I own. But no. Instead I’m going to lay in bed and organize my blog (NERD ALERT) because the sun isn’t out and that means neither is my soul.

Ralph is like, “Nobody cares. Lemme get some salad.”