Meditating is Hard... with Kids

 My son proves why I really need to get more zen!

10 Things Cats Over 30 (in cat years) Should NEVER DO

Listen up kitty, you're getting old, and let's face it- you're kinda gross.
Here's a list of activities you need to start phasing out of your lifestyle, since they really should be saved for the kittens among us.

10. Pouncing and Frolicking 

Decidedly youthful activities that, when done by a kitten are adorable, but are just unseemly when carried out by the aged. We young felines need role models that don't make fools out of themselves over a dangling string, no matter how fun it is.

9. Going into Heat 

Can I just hack up a slimy hairball right now? EWWWW! You DO NOT get to go into heat. First of all, why aren't you fixed, you stinky old cougar! And second, procreation at your age is probably damaging to the species! Stop being selfish and make way for the pretty young calico next door.  I would rather live for a week in my litter box than have to listen to your gross yowls of horniness.

8. Licking Yourself in Public

Self grooming is one of the staples of feline life, but there's no shame in doing it in private if you're over a certain age! Displaying your limbs and flaunting your scratchy tongue are fine when you are soft and fresh- unlike your matted dried out old pelt.

7. Parading Around with Your Tail Up 

Yes, your little butthole may have been cute when you were younger, but now no one wants to see that geriatric poop noose. Keep your tail down and have some respect for yourself. Everyone will thank you for it.

6. Stalking Mice...

Or lizards or birds or anything else that is faster than your creaky old bones can even dream of moving. You look like a half-wit hound! Just pack it in and take a nap. Leave the hunting to those of us with spring left in our paws.

5. Basking in a Pool of Sunlight

Ahhh... the feel of the hot sun baking on your freshly quaffed fur, glory glory... what YOU don't realized is the bright rays are just showcasing every broken whisker, every patch of sparse fur, in a word U-G-L-Y. Blech.
You know what makes you look pretty and young? Hiding in the dark closet. Try it.

4. Partying with Catnip

You knew it was over when you started wheezing every time you huffed the stuff, then came the embarrassing weeping sessions, and finally the dreaded nip noggin. The hard truth is that a kitty stumbling around with nip in her whiskers is funny when she's young, but just tragic after 30. Sorry

 :(

3. Kneading Your Paws on ANYTHING!

The sensual action of kneading your soft paws on cushions or stomachs is supposed to remind everyone of the beautiful moments you spent nursing from your mama- when you were a tiny kitten. For you that was way way back before Garfield was born. When you do it now it just screams of desperation and pathetic longing for your youth. Get over it.

2. Stretching 

Why has no one told you that your jangley stomach hangs and flops all over the place when you stretch out like that? Get a little self-conscious and feel some shame about your aging body for Sphynx sake.

1. Purring 

I would hope by this stage in life you have a little more self control when it comes to the superfluous expressions of purring. Reign it in, you tired old flea resort -  you sound like an idiot. Purring is for kitties with hope in their hearts and a bright future ahead of them... uh, not you.

I know this all may seem a bit harsh- so go put on the soundtrack to CATS and sing the song "Memories" over and over until you feel like throwing the last of your nine lives in front of a speeding SUV. Dying tragically is the most fashionable thing you can do at this point in your life.
Sorry, not sorry.

-Sweet Pretty Catty Kitty. 
     Meow.

Sorry You Died Little Mole

I tried to save this mole from death.

Hey Mr. Mole - run away!

My rodent terrorist cat had already assassinated his friend, and was now toying with him, keeping him close, not letting him run.
I quickly brought the cat inside, and tried to administer first aid to the mole.
His breathing was shallow, he was rooted to the spot- he would not run.
Then I had the bright idea that I should show him to my 5 year old son.
Blinded by my human privilege, I put the mole in a clay pot and brought him into my house.

The mole jumped.

He hit the floor.

He was NOT ok.

I quickly brought him back outside and for the rest of the morning I monitored him - hoping he'd move, run, dig, something, ANYTHING mole like.

His breathing was rapid, his eyes half mast, his whiskers twitched.

At one point I saw him clean himself- Hooray! He's stable!

But he would not move from his spot.

Was he dying?
Was it the fall?
The cat?
PTSD?

Hours later someone (I'm not pointing fingers here- but it wasn't me) left the back door open, and the next thing I knew- the mole was again a prisoner of war.

I ran out- chase the cat away screaming NOOOOO
but it was too late.
He'd gone to that great dirt tunnel in the sky.

I'm sorry you died little mole.

On behalf of all dumb dumb humans-
I am so sorry for it all.

Anyone want Kombucha stuff? Cause I SUCK At KOMBUCHA

I love kombucha! Bubbly, cidary, sharp and sweet, full of probiotics.
-like a soft drink for people who give a scoby about their health.

That's why when the owner of my son's preschool offered me a starter to brew my own elixir, I was intrigued.

I didn't say yes at first, mostly because I have a long history of killing voiceless living things: Plants, worms, sea monkeys- have all died slow humiliating deaths at my neglectful hands.

BUT, she told me, IT'S SOOO EASY! And your family will LOVE it!

She patted me reassuringly and smiled so huge and gorgeous it was like the holy goddess of kombucha herself was shining her light on ME as a chosen one to raise her pups.

So I said ok.

I read half a million blogs and got the necessary jars and jugs and glass and teas and sugar -
And I was ready!

Like a good fungal fostering soldier, I followed the instructions perfectly. I brewed my tea, dissolved the sugar and waited for it to cool.
I put it in my jug with the SCOBY over it, while uttering gentle words of thanks and encouragement.
I covered it in cloth tightened by a repurposed rubber band, and placed it gingerly inside a cabinet for a week.

AND IT WORKED!!!
My SCOBY was flourishing! Sure she looked like grilled cheese vomit, but she was mine!
And for nine weeks I diligently poured my homemade kombucha into jars and drank it everyday.
Then I skipped a day.
Then two, or was it three?

I could not get my family to drink it, and I never seemed to want it either.

I knew I was in trouble when out shopping one afternoon, I picked up a bottle of kombucha and drank it.
I WAS CHEATING ON MY KOMBUCHA!!!

Yummmm....

After that all fermentation went hairy.
Literally.
Fuzz appeared on my SCOBY, and once that happens- it's compost time.

So there you have it- a fermentation brewery with no brew. A girl with no elixir. A SCOBY dead and buried.
Does anyone want all this kombucha stuff?

'cause I SUCK at KOMBUCHA!

I SUCK at Vision Boards

Last night I went to a vision board party, yay!

I was really excited, I mean it’s good to have a vision for your life, right? And it’s fun to cut out pictures from magazines and paste them on poster board, plus it tells your subconscious and ultimately THE UNIVERSE, what you want to manifest! So I was psyched!

But, crystals and mantras and sage and magical wish paper not withstanding, I floundered and failed to make a vision appear- ON THE PAPER- so it’s no wonder I can’t get that shit to materialize in my life!

At the end everyone proudly showed their altruistic and wise visions, explaining the deeper meaning and kick-ass trajectory their lives would soon be taking.

On mine some trees, sparkles, and a lady with nice hair, were all lamely stuck on, like the images themselves were embarrassed to be seen with me. As I held my board up, the word ADVENTURE curled off the page and fell to the floor, as if to say: nice try Reiser, not gonna happen.

So there you have it. In an attempt to better my life, I found I suck at even the arts n’ craft skills necessary to better my life.

I mean, come on...

I suck at vision boards.



Ah, Hope… you still there? Sing me to sleep tonight with your sweet eternal song, cause I still believe…

NIPPLES OF HOPE - Suzanne Whang's Tits vs. Facebook

In 2006 my beautiful, giant hearted, unquenchably optimistic friend, Suzanne Whang, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the following five years she kept her head high and her humor and spirits even higher as she went through lumpectomies, radiation, chemo and a horrendous prognosis: stage 4 and six months to live.

But this was Suzanne, and she turned on her brightest, most captivating smile and beamed it towards the cancer. “I’m gonna kick your fucking ass,” she told it.

I did not learn about the dark times until they were a safe distance behind her. The months she spent beaten, unable to leave her bed; the relentless pain that drove her to search her house in a panic for a way to take her own life.

I only saw the shining ray of awesomeness she chose to show- I had no idea just below my eye line, the tumors were tearing through her skin, testing every last atom of her resilience.

In Suzanne’s words she, “made cancer her bitch and fisted it in the ass.”

She has been cancer free for FOUR years…

Thriving and exulted, Suzanne recently did a brave and glorious topless photo shoot of her body as it is now, even more beautiful because of the scars that traverse it.

She posted one of these pictures along side an open apology to tit cancer on Facebook and was met with an outpouring of love, support, and gratitude. People were inspired, hopeful, and per her usual, Suzanne was spreading joy and laughter even around such a serious topic.

That is until Facebook took her photo down for being *OBSCENE*

What. The. Fuck?

 The only obscene thing about this story is the cancer itself, and the only offensive thing is Facebook’s reaction.

Instead of turning away from Suzanne’s nipples, shouldn’t we turn towards them?

What if someone wakes up tomorrow to learn she has stage 4 cancer and through her grief and fear remembers Suzanne and her nipples and thinks, “I can do it too, I can make cancer my bitch.” 

Suzanne’s nipples are beacons of hope; they are proof that survival is possible. We should construct a monument, erect a statue, name a city for them.
At the very least we should allow them to offer hope electronically via Facebook.

Suzanne Whang’s nipples, long may they live!

You can read more about Suzanne's journey here.
You can watch Suzanne tell her moving story here.
and why not follow her on twitter! 

Naughty Girls Need a PPO Too - Job #31

Admit it, you’ve seen the billboards; you’ve been curious, maybe you’ve even jotted down the website. Maybe you’ve even bought tickets and attended that Mecca of all things salacious and taboo, the sexiest convention of all conventions: Adultcon. For those of you who don’t know, this is the place where porn stars, filmmakers and amateurs alike meet their public, sell their wares (and underwear), pose for pictures and promote their latest award-winning performance in “Butt Blanket Bingo vol. 7”

Like more conventional conventions, Adultcon is un-erotically furnished with rows of folding tables in florescent-lit conference rooms. Except here the tables are colorfully decorated with dildos, DVDs, and a scantily clad girl cheerfully inviting the throngs of visitors over to meet her. And then there was me. Sitting on a table, in jeans and a t-shirt, surrounded by information packets, working for a man who’s big light bulb moment came when he realized what the porn industry needed most: health insurance.

That’s right, health insurance and a payroll paper trail that made the sex-cash business look like a boring day job - just in case said sex worker was future oriented and wanted to apply for a mortgage or car loan. Brilliance!

I met this man; let’s call him Roy, through my stripper friend Mandy (not her real name, or her stripper name). Mandy had bonded with Roy over a fun evening of lap dances for him and his wife. After he tried to sell her insurance, he asked if she’d like to come work the adult convention circuit. She said, not really, but she knew someone who would.

Me. Friendly, open-minded, always on the hunt for more work, me.

Roy called and made an offer: Twenty dollars and hour, per-diem and dinner. My mission: go to conventions, smile, chat up the adult actresses, strippers, and escorts; give them a brochure and plant the seed. Easy-sleazy, right? I didn’t have to sell them anything. Or sign them up. Or take off my clothes.

Not so easy. The first time I walked into the bright, noisy convention center and saw my prospective clients, I was dumb-struck. I mean these girls knew things; amazing and special things like how to make the most painful positions look enjoyable and squelch all gag reflexes. Not to mention they were very glossy, nearly naked under fluorescents (can you say “brave”) and posing for swarms of drooling fans. I felt like a little bowl of peas next to a procession of elaborate hot fudge sundaes. But my job was not to gawk or act shy and pea-like, my job was to get way up in there, make connections and offer these girls a service like no other.

After I set up my tri-fold brochures (a very boring presentation compared with the “revolutionary sex-toy” display I was parked next to), I moved in on my first target. She looked approachable enough with Marilyn hair and a knitted pink teddy. I tried a professional tact, “Good morning, I was wondering if you had ever considered health insurance…” She wrinkled her nose and put her hand up to stop me. “I’m good, I’ve had all my shots.” It took me a few seconds to realize she thought I was with the Health Department and was reassuring me that she was clear of all VDs. Whoops.

On the next few girls I tried a bubbly cheerleader approach, “Hiya chica!!! Do you want health insurance or an awesome W-2 at the end of the year? Check this out!” This too did not work. While some of the girls are super ditzy and bubbly as part of their persona, they certainly didn’t respect it coming from me.

I finally decided on a chummy-funny sidekick role. If I had researched the industry more and knew each girl’s body of work, I could have opened with something like, “Oh, I just loved your acting in Whorey Potter, now tell me, how did you do all that with out knee pads?” But instead I was left with normal attire complements like; “I like that French maid/naughty school girl thong-skirt, did you have it made especially for you?” Then we’d get in a conversation about the trials and tribulations of finding lingerie that actually fits a 31 DDD cup with a 22-inch waist and how if you wanted it done right, you learned to use a sewing machine and alter your own “outfits.”  Once we were best buds, I’d swallow my urge to ask if she actually did enjoy anal beads and instead say something like, “You can have all the benefits of a typical 9-5 without the cubicle and bad shoes!”  Then we laugh, I’d give her the brochure, and she wouldn’t regret talking to me instead of peddling her personal hand held vagina replica (known as a fleshlight- yes they are real).

There was a lot of fun to be had at Adultcon. While not necessarily a porn fan per-se, I certainly got a thrill being surrounded by the sex biz.  People are in good spirits, out to have a great time, no one judges anyone. Fetish is fun! Debauchery a delicacy! I learned a lot about the world during the hours I spent in those convention halls.

The money was good, the work interesting, but it couldn’t last forever. Roy kindly took me out for dinner after each convention, often joined by his friends/business partners. They were big fans of all things pornographic and had a great time backslapping and recalling their exploits and funny encounters. Roy’s stories revolved around his bi-sexual wife and their swinger lifestyle. I took it all in stride, of course, I’m no square, until he started telling me how much his wife would like me, really like me. At first I laughed it off, but when he started pushing the “meet-n-greet” as he called it, I stopped returning phone calls. I never said anything cool like, “Chill on the inappropriate boss talk- let's remember those sexual harassment trainings!” I just faded away from that world, no big finish, no money shot, just a whimper and a sigh.