I was feeling particularly generous of heart and mind this weekend after a few beers, and I decided that I would bake a King Cake for my class in honor of Mardi Gras. Last year I picked up a pre-made bunt cake and a two-liter of Sprite at Jewel and no one complained, but this year I was gonna go super teacher on their asses. This year I would bake a King Cake fit for a king! Or a class of apathetic French students! Whatever!
Then I sobered up and realized that I had actually purchased the necessary ingredients, so now I had to make the stupid thing, which, by the way, involves a lot of mixing of cream cheese and powdered sugar. Did I mention that I don't have a mixer? I don't. But I have an arm! A very sore and dizzy arm that probably won't even pitch in during the shower tomorrow morning out of protest and I'll have to do the whole thing left-handed.
So I got the filling mixed up to a C-/D+ consistency, and even though there were still a few liberal hippie lumps staging a collective act of passive resistance against my attempted melting pot (we prefer the salad bowl metaphor!), I figured they would dissolve in the oven and no one would ever notice. And even if they did, who cares? It's free cake! Eat it or conjugate some verbs!
The lumpy filling was then spread onto the cinnamon dough, and the cinnamon dough was placed onto the baking pan...the baking pan that was exactly the same size as the unbaked cake...the unbaked cake that needs to rise. So out comes the cake like a premature baby not yet ready to face the world, and since we didn't have a bigger baking sheet, Jason suggested that I shimmy the whole thing over to the right and use the broiler pan as a sort of conjoined, surrogate sheet to catch any run-off. Great idea! Betty Crocker weeps into her lace-trimmed hanky as I put the lumpy, two-panned dough log into the fire.
I let it cook until both Jason and I smelled burning, and out it came, pretty as pie, only not quite as pretty as a pie. Actually, it is much, much uglier than pie. It resembles Entenmann's on methamphetamines, briefly over-stimulated and then suffering from acute withdrawal symptoms, mostly in the middle. Ok, not to worry. This is nothing a little frosting can't cover. No one will notice. And if they do they won't say anything! Maybe just a little more frosting. More. Can you still see the cake? More frosting. And don't forget the sprinkles of yellow (for power! and the color you puke when the meth wears off!), green (for faith! and the money you need to buy more meth!), and purple (for justice! and the 1980s, the decade when meth first became popular!).
After it cooled, I decided that the bloated cinnabun might be suitable for consumption. In fact, despite the bent middle and the lumpy filling oozing out one side, it looked kind of good. And there's no way I'm fitting that whole thing in my car, not with the two-pan support system required to transport it, so I might was well cut some off and give it a try.
This is the part where I hit rock-bottom with the cake, and realize that no amount of frosting is going to fix the federal emergency that is going on inside this pastry. It was like a sunny-side up egg in reverse, cooked on the top and soggy on the bottom, threatening to infect anyone who dares sample its contents with any number of raw dough diseases. The filling had been partially absorbed by the dough, and if you pressed down ever so slightly on the top, a white substance would seep from unknown origins, and you would choke just a little, witnessing the carnage splayed out before you.
I despaired. Jason asked what I would need to make another cake, and I told him, "a professional chef." I couldn't bear to throw it away; I had invested so much time in its making, so I wrapped the corpse in tin foil and lay it to rest in the refrigerator, next to the leftover Giordano's pizza, a fellow victim of too much filling.
There will be no homemade King Cake for the students of French 101. At this point, I'm not even sure I have the energy for bunt/Sprite combo. Perhaps I will draw them a picture of a cake with dry erase markers and label the various components. This is where the lumpy cream cheese filling oozes out the side, and here is where it's burned on top and raw on bottom, and this part here represents three and a half inches of frosting, a pastry toupee of sorts that never fools anyone, and here I am crying in the corner. A student will raise her hand and ask why I am drawing a donut on the board. Will this be on the test? Another will say he thought it was a tire. Three people will head for the door as their cell phones ring--they'll be right back, they just gotta take this call from their boo. And I, the once and future King Cake baker, will hang my head in shame and silently blame it all on Katrina.
"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me--can't get fooled again!"
Ok. I know this is my fault. I KNOW. It is. I should have learned (learnt) my lesson. This can no longer be blamed on the Dollar $tore Jumbo Bag of fake Q-tips. I had been warned. The bag showed its cards, and I looked at them and I knew that I was beat, for the bag had a full house of contaminated swabs, and I had just a lousy pair of ears. But I am not a good gambler, no. I pump my coins into the Lobster Larry nickel slots and wait to hit pay dirt. Or, in the case of the cotton swabs, dirt dirt.
What I'm getting at here is that I found another hair. And this time, it was AFTER I had put it in my ear.
So there you have it. My name is Sarah, and I am a swabaholic. If there are cotton swabs in the house, I will seek them out and put them in my ears. Like a hardened alcoholic, pondering that half-empty bottle of nail polish remover, I return to the Dollar $tore Jumbo Bag of swabs, knowing they will only do me harm but nevertheless unable to resist their cottony spell. Internet, I am weak and I need your help. Even with the clairvoyance of the afternoon hindsight, I know that tomorrow morning I will stumble into the bathroom and I will look at the bag and the bag will look back at me and I will know that it has won again. Then I will insert someone else's hair into my ear and write about it on the Internet. Please. Help me break this vicious cycle. Come over to my apartment and throw the swabs away. Or, at the very least, just put them up high where I won't be able to reach them.
And now it's time for everybody's favorite game show: "Why is Sarah Making This Face?"
Is it:
a) because the Q-Tip generic cotton swab she is holding has a hair on it?
b) because the cotton swab she is holding has a hair on it that is neither hers nor the B's nor the Kitty's?
c) because the cotton swab came out of the bag with the foreign hair on it, and, upon closer inspection,one can see that the hair is actually spun into the tip of the swab, like some kind of revolting cotton candy?
d) ALL OF THE ABOVE!
I think we all know the answer here. Now, if you'll join me in having a closer look at the evidence:
I almost put that in my ear.
Now, when you cheap out and buy the Dollar $tore Jumbo Pack of cotton swabs that are 1,000 for $1.00, you need to be prepared for the occasional product defect. For example, I've found several decapitated cotton swabs with nothing but a pointy plastic stick at one end (ouch!), as well as others that appear to be infected with elephantitis of the tip. I suppose you're supposed to set these aside for "crafts!" or "general household cleaning!" as suggested by the copy on the bag. Fine. These are acceptable defects. I will (probably) not be calling the manufacturer over a cottonless swab and requesting that they refund my 1/10th of a penny. (probably)
But when it's seven in the morning and you scarcely have your eyes open and you begin to put something into your ear until, out of the corner of your eye you see a small, black wisp (curious!), but you disregard your vision because you just woke up after all and who are you to be trusting your sensory organs at such an early hour, so you carry on with the ear cleaning and oooh, that tickles a little! This swab feels kind of like a sparse feather! How unusual! And then, not unlike a slow-motion scene from a horror film, you recall the image of the black thing of 10 seconds ago and decide to take a closer look at this object you are about to shove deep into your ear canal, and oh yes, well, what have we here? A hair?! Mmm! Ok! And then you dry-heave for the next twenty minutes.
This is why they say not to put Q-tips in your ear. Because they might have hair on them.
I will be mailing the offending item back to the manufacturer, with a curt note telling them exactly where they can shove their generic, hairy cotton swab. It won't be in the ear.
Yesterday I went into work sick and I ended up walking into a wall and running a stop sign on the way home. Today I thought it might be better not to endanger my life and yours by driving under the infection, and my plan is to fight the fever in bed. This evening I'm scheduled to do that talk thing that I did this time last year, which means I guess I'll have to take a shower at some point. Not that grad students aren't accustomed to dirty, but last year I wore a suit and I don't want to look like I've fallen off the wagon and been trampled by the herd.
I just received the following email message from one of the many ridiculous wedding information services that magically acquired my email once we got engaged:
Discover the most requested Father/Daughter dance song in America!
"When Angels Fly" by Tony Ransom and the Heavenly Light Orchestra is the most heart felt Father Daughter Dance song of the decade. To experience what critics are proclaiming the most passionate* Father Daughter Dance song ever written please visit: WhenAngelsFly.com
Friday I did not have to work. I celebrated this by spending most of the day in my pajamas, and then having to rush to get ready for the one event I had planned at 7:00, which was to see Mimi Smartypants read at the Subterranean. There were others reading, too, including a man in a bunny suit who shared excerpts from his "childhood diary" about making out with a cousin, but I cared not for them. I was there for Mimi. Give us Mimi!
Luckily she was the second-to-last person to take the stage, because to get to the Subterranean from where I live, you have to take the Irving Park bus to the Damen bus, and have you ever taken the Damen bus before? Of course you haven't, because it runs once every 15-20 years. So we were about an hour late, and I began to fear that we had missed her, and that we'd just paid $5 each to listen to other people read from their websites when we could have spent that money on dinner or beer. Upon further inquiry, I was reassured that we were not too late at all, and that Mimi was "over there," drinking at the bar, "with the hair and the glasses."
When it was finally her turn, she walked up to the mic, took a long drink from her High Life, and read/pantomimed several short excerpts from her website and book. I listened and laughed, and then when she was through I tapped her on the shoulder and told her I was "a huge fan." A HUGE FAN. And then! Just to be sure she didn't confuse me with a medium-sized fan who was simply posing as a huge fan, I quoted part of one of her posts. This is why I prefer to communicate with people online.
Afterward, Jason and I had dinner at the Earwax Cafe, where he remarked that he could say "Hey! Look at that guy!" all night long and never run out of material. There are hipsters in Wicker Park, did you know?
Saturday I started coming down with the sickness, and we left the house only for an oil change and dinner at El Mariachi. I read an article about Bette Davis in Vanity Fair and went to bed early.
Sunday I woke up with a still-sore throat, disgusting cough, and painful skin. Do you get that, when you have a fever? Skin that's so sensitive it hurts to have clothes on? Web MD thinks I might have leprosy. I went to bed at 9:30 and woke up nine and a half hours later STILL SICK.
So I stayed home from work today. I probably could have made it, at least for a half day, but knowing that I have to teach Tuesday and Thursday nights and give a talk at U of C on Wednesday evening, I thought I better recuperate as much as possible while I can. I've been mostly prostrate on the couch, drinking tea by the gallons and wishing we had Turner Classic Movies. If you'd like to stop by with something to watch, I'll promise not to cough on you (too much).
As set forth by Article II, Section 3 of the Tenant's Lease Agreement, the primary lessee of the apartment shall, from time to time, give to the Congress* information of the state of the apartment, and recommend to their consideration such measures as she shall judge necessary and expedient, especially for the procurement of more drinks.
*The Congress shall be defined as B and The Kitty.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the State of the Apartment Address:
"The Internet, Vice President B, The Kitty, and occasional occupants of our couch, we gather here for the first time to discuss the state of the apartment, well aware of the decisive days that lie ahead.
You and I serve this apartment in a time of great consequence. For example, what will we have for dinner tonight? And where will we buy the beer? Will we walk to the corner, where the prices are lower but there is a risk of being held up in front of the flop house, or shall we take the easy road, buying the beer right downstairs in this very building where convenience comes at a high price? Will we pay for the late-night delivery with cash, or do we all have twenties, thus forcing us to put the food order on a credit card and pay one another back later? And, perhaps the most pressing issue of all, who will make the call? Fellow citizens, tonight I am here to urge you to make the call together, as a nation. A very small, hungry nation.
To protect our apartment in light of the recent terrorist menu attacks, we have mobilized against the threats of this new era, and have put into place a policy wherein we double-check the lock every night. Also, angry phone calls have been placed to the appropriate contacts, and we are confident that our defense is strong.
To bring the apartment out of recession, we have delivered heroic tax relief to The Kitty, who now enjoys a healthy Earned Income Tax Credit that amounts to $25 per month to feed herself and her fourteen starving kittens. The extra money she has left over will result in increased discretionary spending that will stimulate our economy and allow us to invest in louder surround sound and perhaps one day, call waiting.
To improve our educational system, we have invested 3% of our overall budget, that's nearly FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS ANNUALLY, into math and science spending, meaning that in just four short years, B will have the technology equipment he needs to word process a paper at home. The Kitty will also be subjected to four additional standardized tests per year under the No Cat Left Behind Act. To our neighboring units, I say: Look out! The apartment is on the rise!
[Pause for applause.]
Some might call this a good record. I call it a good start. Tonight, I ask B and The Kitty to join me in the next bold steps to serve the apartment and its visitors.
Our first goal is clear: We must have an economy strong enough to provide a beer to every man and woman who seeks one. To those who do not drink beer (Blair, Mary), we will provide Sprite.
Our current moderate unemployment rates have allowed us to live comfortably, although we still do not have the resources to spend on extras like Netflix or name brand toilet paper. A recent economic downturn led to a reduction in laundry spending, and B was forced to leave his drawers open, flipping his socks like pancakes until they were sufficiently dry. This heroic measure saved us $1.20. For my part, instead of spending $7.00 new knitting needles at the store, I used an emory board to file down chopsticks from a recent take-out dinner. I ask my fellow apartment members to continue to live frugally, so that we can look forward to a future of fully-dried clothes and splinter free hands.
Our second goal will be to apply the compassion of the apartment to the deepest problems of the apartment. For so many in our dwelling -- the overworked, the underpaid, the occasionally kicked off the bed in the middle of the night -- the need is great. Yet there is power -- wonder-working power -- in the goodness and idealism and faith of the apartment people*.
We need to use this power of compassion to work against the troubles facing our great one-bedroom. And I will be frank, there have been troubles and we have all made mistakes.
I, for one, attempted to iron a shirt on the carpet without the benefit of an ironing board, and now there is a burn mark on the floor. It is faint, but I know it's there. B once spilled half a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's on yet another spot of the carpet. The stain may have come out, but we will never forget. The Kitty, too, has had hard times, eating until she vomits, leaving warm Purina puree on the very ground where she lays her head.
As you can see, the real victim here, and the true apartment hero, is the carpet. B and The Kitty, I appeal to you to join me in counteracting this force of destruction we have unleashed onto the carpet. The carpet needs our help, and we must rise to the challenge together. NO CARPET WILL BE LEFT BEHIND!
[Pause for applause.]
And, to the plants I say, do not think I have forgotten you, for I have not forgotten you. I have seen your drooping stems and wilting leaves, and I have felt your pain. With you in mind, I have enacted a bold new policy which allows you to receive filtered water from the Brita every day. Your leaves will be greener and your stalks sturdier, thanks to me.
Different threats require different strategies. Two doors down and across the hall, we see a rogue state emerging, as one roommate continually locks the other out of his own apartment, or, perhaps the second roommate simply forgets his keys. Either way, we have witnessed together the unwarranted terror and destruction these neighbors have brought to the apartment, as we try to sleep amidst the incessant pounding and shouting of "Dude! OPEN THE DOOR!"
If this is not annoying, then annoying has no meaning.
Whatever action is required, whenever action is necessary, I will defend the freedom and security of the apartment. The Apartment will not be annoyed!
[Pause for applause.]
And we go forward with confidence, because we are a strong and resolute apartment. When our vehicle is towed, we band together and get it back! When black debris pours up through the bathtub train, we take turns cleaning it out! When The Kitty is sick, we drive her to the vet! When B needs subjects for his dissertation research, we spend hours in the lab, knowing that together we can build a better tomorrow. And when I need more water in my glass or fur on my pillow, B and The Kitty are ready to support me. They are the unquestioning faithful, the sturdy mortar of this humble abode.
We, the apartment residents, have faith in ourselves, but not in ourselves alone. We do not claim to know all the ways of our Landlord, yet we can trust in him, placing our confidence in the legal proprietor of these great and noble 816 square feet.
May he guide us now, and may the Landlord continue to allow us to live in the apartment.
Emma found my interview with The Kitty so engrossing that, after several restless nights spent lying awake, thirsting for more hard-hitting Oprahesque content, she finally broke down and invited me to do the Four Things Meme. We are, therefore, bypassing the long-standing electoral process and declaring ourselves tagged. People, we are it.
Four jobs I've had:
1. Groundskeeper Willie for Goodtimes, the Center for Family Fun! The place is run entirely by suburban 16-year-olds working for minimum wage, meaning there are endless ways to injure the whole family on any number of malfunctioning attractions. Drown your unsupervised child in the bumper boat pool! Get a concussion in the fast-pitch batting cage! Crash on our "brakes optional" go karts! Usually employees complete a tour of duty on all rides, but I hated working these detractions so much that I requested to be put on permanent grounds duty. I weighed 95 pounds after a summer of mopping floors, hauling garbage bags to the dumpster and consuming nothing but pink lemonade. A few summers later I was promoted to the rank of supervisor, where I dealt with angry mobs of middle-class fathers who made "Try to Make the Supervisor Cry!" an added bonus attraction. Cost: 0 tickets. When I realized that the owner and I were the only two employees old enough to buy beer, I decided it was time to go. I did meet my friend Chris Capretto there, so I suppose it was worth it. He's an all right guy I guess.
2. Oh dear God. That was only job 1.
Job 2: Dishwasher at the university commons in college. I hated this job so much that I repressed all memories of its existence until just a year ago when it all came back to me in a dream. I had to wear a teal and purple trucker-style cap with a large, plastic nametag pinned to the front. Again, working for minimum wage, I spent hours after class scrubbing pots and pans with scalding water until the crusty remains of burned tuna casserole and beef lasagna disappeared down the industrial-sized drain. I became friends with a coworker who wanted to "turn me on to Phish," and we hung out a couple of times until he learned I had a boyfriend and stopped talking to me all together. When I quit after just two months of employment, the supervisor told me, "You've been a great employee, so if you ever decide you want to come back you're always welcome!" Little did she know I would have dropped out of college before scrubbing one more pan of Chef's Special Surprise remnants with my bare hands.
3. My dad owns his own lawn care business, and for a number of summers I would help out in the office and ride along in the truck, writing up invoices and putting signs in yards that had been treated. It gave us time to bond, and he bought me lunch at Subway every day. I did this on and off up until the end of college, and I can still remember standing in the middle of huge lawn in Wellington, squinting my eyes in the bright sunlight and hardly being able to contain my excitement because that afternoon I was going to drive up to Michigan with my friend Stacey to see Jason again for the first time in eight years and I had no idea what it would be like but I had a feeling it was going to be good.
It was.
4. When I moved to Ypsilanti for a brief period after I graduated from college, I worked for a summer at the Ann Arbor Harmony House. I really liked this job, and am kind of sad that the store has since closed. My boss was a gregarious gay man who wore capri pants and played a lot of Madonna. Otherwise, I worked with mostly hipsters and my friend Chris, who may or may not be a hipster.
Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. The Big Lebowski
2. Psycho
3. Pulp Fiction
4. Home Alone
Four places I have lived:
1. Elyria, Ohio - 15 years
2. Tours, France - 1 year
3. Ypsilanti, Michigan - 1/3 year
4. Chicago, Illinois - 5 years and counting
Four TV shows I love:
1. The Daily Show
2. The Simpsons (the old years, when they were actually funny)
3. Curb Your Enthusiasm
4. The Sopranos
NEW CATEGORY FOR I AM A RENEGADE! Four radio shows I love:
1. This American Life
2. Fresh Air
3. Whad'Ya Know? (Not much!)
4. Car Talk
Four places I've vacationed:
1. Sarasota, Florida (every winter since I was in first grade until last year, when my grandfather moved to Tampa)
2. Charlottesville, Virginia at the Boar's Head Inn. This is where I fell in love with UVA as a teenager and envisioned my future as a snobby Jeffersonian Cavalier. I never actually applied and still regret it a little.
3. Vegas!
4. New Orleans, a surprise vacation that Jason gave to me as a Christmas present during our senior year of college.
Four of my favorite dishes:
1. The Main Dish
2. The Side Dish
3. The Soup Dish
4. The Dessert Dish
Four sites I visit daily:
1. Dooce -- Still crazy for her after all these years.
2. Lucy's Spleen -- I am a devout member of the Church of Spleen.
3. The Real Kato -- No, Google, I did not mean realtor.
4. Specialty Purebred Cat Rescue -- Behold the flat-faced kitties!
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Fishing with Tom Waits in Jamaica
2. Eating chimichangas with Conan O'Brien at the El Jardin on Clark
3. Knitting scarves with my mom with her kitty by our side
4. Stalking Ira Glass
Four people I am tagging:
1. Emma
2. Ken
3. Jenn
4. Couch
(But only if you want to. I'm not into peer pressure.)
Jason and I once had an idea that we would create and market a calendar called "The Twelve Seasons of Cowher," and each month would highlight a different charismatic Cowher expression -- jubilant, perplexed, determined, crestfallen, ambivalent, pensive, outraged, whimsical, etc. The joke, of course, is that they are all the same picture, because Cowher is capable of but one facial expression:
This is his happy face.
Last night was a whirlwind of football, polka music, Iron City beer, and one decapitated plush seahawk. Jason's dad and uncle flew in to join us at the Dark Horse, which was so crowded that when the guy next to you wanted to dance to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," you danced too, like it or not (not). A friend of ours showed up right before the kickoff, and the bouncer tried to tell her that he couldn't let her in because they were already at capacity, until he looked around the room of conjoined black and gold megatuplets and realized how ridiculous that sounded and just let her in anyway. Capacity plus one.
I'm glad they won, because it would have been a very soggy scene otherwise -- sweaty, beer-soaked sports fans who are also crying -- and hey! Vegas finally owes us for a change! But don't worry, that won't last long as I am a firm believer that the only way to collect your Vegas winnings is in person, thus giving us the opportunity to "reinvest" those winnings in the more customary take-home prize: losings. It was a fun but exhausting night, and I'm glad I don't have to work today because I still have beer in my hair.
Granted, not nearly as much money as we stood to win last year when we watched the Steelers lose to the New England Patriots during the Conference Championship game and then I swore at a security guard in the Bellagio sports book and almost got us thrown out, but this time it's the Super Bowl. Go Steelers!
Back in when I had first finished my Masters and was suffering through a stretch of unemployment so awful that I made and Excel sheet to determine which laundromat would provide me with the best all-around career opportunity, I received a message on my answering machine from a Department Chair at Olive Harvey Community College. They had received my resume and wanted to know if I would be interested in teaching an introductory Humanities course. Would I? I was ready to fold the laundry of the introductory Humanities course! And now you're asking me to teach it? Like I've been trained to do? Like I've been trying to do with the 297 cover letters and 143 follow-up calls and 99 bottles of beer on the wall? I reluctantly accept.
The class was to start THE NEXT DAY (that's less than 24 hours for those of you keeping score at home) and I didn't even know where the school was, let alone what book they were using or what language I was supposed to speak, but I didn't care. If they were willing to experiment, so was I. I quickly looked around online for a syllabus so I could sound somewhat competent when I returned his call, and then I spent the next forty minutes listening to his voice mail greeting, which I no longer remember except that it started and ended with "Salamu-'Alaikum." When I finally did get through, he told me that the position had already been filled.
My face began contorting into a likeness of Nixon, The Impeachment Years, and Jason quickly ran for the emergency gin.
"It's been filled? Already? I just received your message an hour ago!"
"Yeah. You know. I was just calling down the list and someone answered before you so they go the job. It was last minute. Sorry."
Just think of the possibilities, hopeful educators! In order to beat out the competition for that job you've spent many years and thousands of dollars training for, all you have to do is BE HOME! America truly is the land of opportunity!
With the benefit of several years and two (sort of) paying jobs, this missed opportunity no longer feels significant to me. At the time, however, I was crushed. I cried for hours, cursing myself for having gone to the grocery store at the exact hour of his call. Why couldn't he have called during all of those other hours when I wasn't at the grocery store? I hate the grocery store! Their produce is overpriced! And now I might have to work there!
If you believe that life is not determined by fate, that your own free will coupled with random chance bounce you around this world like a pinball, never knowing if you'll end up scoring a double bonus or a rolling down the drain, instances like this can feel especially crushing because you kick yourself for having played a part in your own demise while simultaneously cursing the other guy for having gotten in your way. It becomes easy to drown yourself in a two-inch puddle of what-ifs.
Now, take this scenario and substitute "Tom Waits" for "Olive Harvey Community College," and not only do you have a far more interesting story on your hands, but you also have a legitimate reason for believing in religion, because if there isn't a higher purpose behind this missed connection, then I don't want to think about how much emergency gin it's going to take to drink the Nixon face away.
Lately it seems that lots of people are getting interviewed about their websites or flown across the world just for being funny and popular online (and what better reason?) or tagged with memes by the biggest and brightest. Well, guess what? (I give up! What?) I was interviewed too! (No way!) Way! And because I know that you are all desperately trying to piece together the complex jigsaw puzzle that makes up the inner sanctum of the Cerdo (beer + liberal ideals + more beer = the world's easiest puzzle), I thought I would do you the favor of posting this hard-hitting question and answer series. I now present to you, my Interview with The Kitty. It's like Interview with the Vampire, but with more sharp teeth! Enjoy!
The Kitty: First of all, I just want to say thanks for all the tuna over the years. Seriously. There was a time in my life when I subsisted on kibble alone, and that was a really bad period for me. Like, eating my own fur bad. One day I was all spaced out, craving the tuna, and I accidentally only licked my left paw twenty-seven times instead of twenty-eight times before taking my thirteenth nap, and I couldn't sleep at all. I was so tired I didn't know what was wrong. I just knew I felt dirty. So thanks for helping me get out of that.
Sarah: You're welcome. But I forgot to buy tuna the last time I was at Jewel so if that was just a veiled request for tuna, it will have to wait.
TK: Which brings me to my first question. How many times per week, on average, do you like to go to the Jewel?
S: If I go to Jewel more than once a week it's safe to say that I am in my own bad place. I do not like the Jewel.
TK: Interesting. Now in this Jewel, can kitties go there?
TK: Moving on. I've noticed that you and the Assistant don't lick your own asses very often. Sometimes not for weeks at a time. Is this some sort of deep-rooted childhood phobia or are you just a naturally dirty species?
S: Outside of the Savage Love column, people don't lick their own asses. We take showers.
TK: Interesting. I always thought you were just very thirsty in the morning. This explains much about your behavior. I will have to report my findings in Nature.
S: You're getting published in Nature?
TK: What do you think I do all day while you're outside going to the vet?
S: Are we done here?
TK: Do you like fish in a can?
S: No.
TK: Can you give me some fish in a can?
S: No!
TK: We have nothing left to discuss. I'm going to go lick my ass now and then I will furry-up the Assistant's pillow.
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