Wednesday, December 11, 2013

A Guide For The Unsophisticated Slop Dropper: Flush

I have never potty trained a child but I was, myself, potty trained and I'm pretty sure that I remember one of the key tenants of potty training being flush the toilet after you use it.

I assume that the fully grown human beings surrounding me every single day were also once potty trained. However, it seems that FLUSHING THE TOILET 101 was an elective and not a mandatory course requirement.

Whenever I go into a public restroom I have to flush the toilets. Every. Single. Time. Why? Why aren't these women flushing their bidness off to the depths of the city sewer system?

At least twice a day this happens;
Stall 1: Goddamn it!
Stall 2: EIW!
Stall 3: What the hell is that?
Handicap Stall: Fucking hell.

And then:

You know that when a toilet is flushed it sprays shit and piss three feet into the air where it lingers and waits for us to breath, right? You all know this. Everybody knows this that's why we flush and get the hell outta there.

So it's not like I'm primly walking through the public shithouse just flush, flush, flush, la, dee, da. I'm balanced on my right foot with my left elbow on the stall wall using my left foot to maneuver the water-saving-dual-flush handle up for #1 and down for #2 while covering my mouth and nose with my left forearm. I'm like a fucking Circ De Soleil acrobat in there. Except in the handicap stall where the flushy thing is on the other side of the toilet and my delicate balance is thrown off making the risk of falling into stranger shit, like, 98%.

Anyway, after all this I obviously can't use the bathroom because there's all that shit and piss in the air. Shit and piss from other people's bodies is in the air all around me! It's on my hair, my skin, my clothes! It's on my lips.

I can't use another bathroom because you know the situation isn't any better over there. I am going to get kidney disease or stones or some kidney related disease because half the women's mothers never explained that there isn't a monster in the toilet so FLUSH THE FUCKING THING and now I can't pee anywhere but at home.

The other half of the women what? What is happening in the stall that makes them leave their slop droppings behind? Do they think I want to admire their endeavors? Like "Oh wow. Look at that shit. LOOK AT IT! I wish my shit could be as smooth and as cylindrical as this shit." or "Somebody remembered to take her vitamins this morning. Good on her!" (Because vitamins make our pee fluorescent yellow. I'm helping you out in case you don't take a multivitamin). (Psst, take a daily multivitamin, People).

Have they been in the stall for so long tugging up Spanx and tucking in shirts that they've forgotten they just peed out a quart of soda and used half a roll of toilet paper so they walk away like "How'd I get in the bathroom?"

Can society get lower than not removing their own waste when the technology is not only readily available but so simple to use that a dog can do it? I just don't know.

Somebody get this dog a Mensa card.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Dating: This Is Not The Answer

I don't date because I have really, really bad taste in men. People who've known me for a while can confirm that I pick some real winners. Let's review a few of my past boyfriends, shall we?

  • There was the guy that I caught cheating on me. Twice. (I had to climb a tree to catch him that second time but it was totally worth it.)
  • There was the other guy who thought we should "breed" because he was tall and I was smart. (Smart enough to get the fuck outta there.)
  • Then there was the guy with the secret meth lab in his house. (No word of a lie, People.)
  • Oh, don't forget the guy that was writing bad checks at Foxwoods Casino. (He was hot. So, so very hot.)

I got mad skillz in the Man-Picking department.

It's safe to say that if a guy has any interest in me there is something inherently wrong with him. The trouble is that I don't know there's something horribly wrong with the guy until a year or two goes by so today I had a brilliant idea!

Date a felon!* 

How's that for beating the Universe at its own game? See? I am smart.

In other news, I might have made a bad decision today...

* Don't worry, People. I'm not going to date a felon but odds of someone I date being convicted of a felony look to be about 50/50.

Friday, November 8, 2013

'Tis The Season Of Sickness and Fever Dreams

Somebody at work gave me Rabid Monkey Flu. Or Death. Maybe it's The Cancer. My skin hurts and I have a shooting pain in my left hip. It's hip cancer, I know it. No, I bet it's ass cancer and forever my family can talk about the relative that died of ass cancer in her hip. 'Cause that's how I roll. Ass cancer of the hip. Typical.

I almost made it a decade disease free and then this. This sickness. I'm not a good sick person, I cry a lot when I'm sick. I need love. And cuddles.

Who doesn't enjoy a good fever induced dream or two, right? Last night I dreamed that I found a bag of holiday flavor Dunkin' Donuts coffee inside an empty coffee bag like I'd hidden it just so I could surprise myself in some distant future and be like "Oh snap! Look at this awesome flavored Dunkin' Donuts coffee! It's from moi? Oh moi, I love you!"

Yes, please!
Then I had another dream in which my sister told me how good I look and it's amazing how I lost those last five pounds in just ten days. Thanks, Sis. You're looking good too.

Literally, in my dreams. Also, nice jeans.

Why can't real life be just like our dreams?

Ooooh, right. Because I also had a dream that every time I tried to breathe, my nostrils sealed shut and I was surrounded by a crowd of Southern women in their fifties wearing fluorescent '80s jogging suits saying things like... "Poor thing, look at her suffocating" and "Bless her heart, she's gasping" and "Look at her just floppin' around on the ground". Never once did it occur to me to breathe through my mouth.

Then there was that other dream where I was being chased around a creepy mansion by Sally Creatures and yelling for Beast Master to help me but he completely ignored me. Kinda realistic on that point.

Maybe it's okay that fever induced dreams stay dreams. I do want that coffee though.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Quick! Act Professional.

Today rounds out my first full month of work... in an office. Every. Single. Day.

We're all having trouble adjusting.

This one has opted to start sleep-shitting instead of adjusting

I'm a consultant and my last gig was pretty sweet because I worked from home! In the consulting world it's rare to get a contract that allows you to work from home. I was spoiled. I got used to it. I forgot basic things about being in public. Like manners and pretending to care appropriate interaction with others so I made a list.

Things I have to remember now that I don't work from home...

  • Don't fart.
  • Don't crack my gum or blow bubbles. According to the lady in the cube in front of me, gum cracking makes people homicidal.
  • I'm very loud. I think these people are going to have to get used to it.
  • Other people don't eat five times a day. They only give me the stink eye because they're jealous.
  • Don't walk around the office barefoot because eiw
  • Don't sit Indian style, especially when wearing a skirt.
  • Constantly getting up to stand at my desk or wander around the office appears to be something only weirdos do.
  • My coworkers will assume I'm doing lines in the bathroom because I drink about 60oz of water, coffee, and tea which means I will knock people down on my way to the bathroom every 30 minutes.
  • Seriously, don't fart.
  • And don't burp either.
  • Don't pick my nose or my ass.
  • People will roam the halls and streets with their heads up their asses phones and when they crash into me it will be my fault because I'm;
    • clumsy
    • lazy
    • an idiot
    • all of the above
  • Wear pants - all the time. No exceptions.
  • People will ask how my weekend was. Every day they will ask. They will ask on Monday, they will ask on Thursday. The only acceptable answer is "Good!" and then I must reciprocate by asking what they did this weekend and hiding how utterly painful this conversation is.
  • Beginning at 10am on Friday's people will want to know if I have BIG PLANS! this weekend. Acceptable answers are:
    • Nope, just relaxing.
    • Nothing much, just relaxing.
    • BASE JUMPING! yelled very loudly.
  • Unacceptable answers to the BIG PLANS! question are;
    • Stalker much?
    • Fuck off.
    • COW TIPPING! yelled very loudly
Stay tuned for stories of epic awkward and embarrassing moments. I've already been caught flexing in the bathroom mirror and face down, ass up under a conference table.

I'm so professional they're erecting a statue in my honor

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Why I Don't Have Girlfriends

For the record -

  1. I don't hate women. Women harbor a strong dislike for me, not the other way around.
  2. I am a woman.
  3. I find people of all genders to be annoying, not only women but most definitely people that squeal while jumping up and down.

I came across the video below on Upworthy today. I don't understand the women in this video at all. I cannot empathize with them and I spend a lot of time every day trying to empathize with people so I can practice not being a complete asshole. Point is, I've got this empathy thing down. It's not me, it's them.

Watch this:

What's the message here? Are college graduates ready to take on the world? No. They never are - because the world hits you in the face like a fucking sledge hammer. It doesn't matter if you're a man or a woman. Reality will cut a bitch.

Wait, maybe this is about being afraid? Afraid of what? Men have the same fears that these women are talking about. Men are afraid of failure too. Men are afraid of not fitting in too. I know men that are afraid of the weird man in their closet. See, it's not just me.

Why is that woman afraid to be a musician (aside from the broke, homeless, struggling artist thing)? Why is the other woman afraid to admit to being an Emmy award winning writer? Or a ballerina? When will I learn how to spell ballArina (thank you spell check for correcting my accent)?

Maybe it's because I'm not sweet or maybe it's because I'm not nice or maybe it's because I'm not beautiful that I have been told, all my life, that my biggest asset is my brain.

For as long as I can remember people have told me that I'm smart.

I'm intelligent.

I have a good head on my shoulders.

I have common sense.

And street smarts. (Is that the same as common sense?)

I'm a fucking genius.

My parents, my teachers, my siblings, my friends - they've always told me that I'm a natural born leader. And you know what? When I graduated college I never would have thought of myself as a leader. Because I was a kid and kids just graduating college don't know anything about themselves or what they want to be when they grow up. Because they are babies and have yet to experience the game of Life and all its joys.

Maybe the fact that I've always been told I'm smart and can be anything I want to be and everybody I know will still love me is why I don't understand why the women in that video are afraid of - what? What are they afraid of? I totally don't understand this video. Women are so fucking difficult.

Ladies, you are holding yourselves back! Get out there and go get what you want. It's 2013 for Christ's sake!

Women. Rule. The. Fucking. World.

Nothing would ever happen if we weren't getting shit done so stop letting The Man get you down. We're already doing everything you say you're afraid of. Come join us. We've been running the show since the dawn of time.

Grow a vagina and fucking fill it with Girl Power.

Monday, May 6, 2013

English to Dog Translation

What I say
“Goodnight, Monkeys. We’re sleeping until 7 tomorrow.”

What They Hear
Boppo: “Lie on the stairs, guard the house, bark randomly, scare the shit out of everyone.”

Crazy: “Wake me up at 6:49 by whining. Do that barely audible, breathy whine that you do because it lets me know you care and I like it a lot”

Sidekick: “We’re sleeping until 8 but you should bitch slap me at precisely 12:37 with a paw so I know you’re in full REM sleep.”

Doodle: “We’re getting up at 2:14 to crap. I’ll need you to wake me up by scratching the walls and side of the bed while frantically running back and forth into the hallway. Then we’ll do it all again at 4:14.”

This is not a pig.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Lights Are On But Nobody's Home

I have a horrible memory. Awful. I live in a bubble that is exactly this moment in time only. I dated a guy for seven years and I have no idea what color his eyes are. I’ll forget your name two seconds after you tell it to me even though I repeated it three times. If Beast Master disappeared and I had to describe him to the police all I’d come up with is “He has a very round head”.

When you have a memory like mine every day is full of suprises! Like when I order six items from Amazon and they’re all shipped separately and from different vendors. Last week I went to Amazon, pressed ‘Place Order’ and immediately forgot about it.

Two days later a packaged arrived and I thought that someone had sent me a gift. It was cereal. Close enough to a gift, I really like this cereal. The next day another box arrived and I thought that maybe my sister or mom loves had sent me a gift. They hadn’t and I honestly can’t remember what was in the box. Odds are on more cereal. That same day my Lucky Vitamin order arrived and even with their happy green logo printed on every side of the box I couldn’t remember why I’d placed an order with them or what was in it but I was hoping it wasn’t vitamins. It wasn’t, it was stuff for the dogs.

This week a teensy little box arrived from KV Vet Supply and I absolutely could not imagine what was in it or why someone would send me a gift from there. Nobody did. It was Boppo’s arthritis supplement.

Also arriving this week were two other packages. I don’t remember what was in them or where they came from but it's a little insane sad that no matter how many times this happens my first thought is "Yay! A present! For me!"

Do you see how Amazon fucks with my head?

Every single time a box arrives Beast Master and I have this conversation;

Beast: Whadya get?
Me: I don’t know! Do you think someone sent me something?
Beast: Didn’t you just order stuff?
Me: I don’t know! Did I? What did I order? Wasn’t that, like, last month?
Beast: ... No, it was Monday. Open it.
Me: Squeee! You open it, I’m too excited!
Beast: I’m not opening it. You ordered it, you open it.
Me: Weeeee!I’mtooexcited!Maybeit’sagift!Maybesomebodylovesme! OPEN IT!
Beast: Sigh.

Every. Time.
Why he asked me to remind him about something is beyond me.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Ghetto Spell Check

I spent a good bit of time quietly saying "Save whatever you IS working on" before deciding that Spell Check is just trying get me fired for stupidity.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Back Off, That's My Sunday

Yesterday I attempted a current events cram session while I cooked and then ate my lunch. The only thing this cram session achieved was to turn me into that person who thinks I know everything until Beast Master throws my utter lack of knowledge in my face and I try to deflect the issue by hiking my leg up on the kitchen counter and offering sex.

Once upon a time I read books. I read them from cover to cover, none those sneak peaks on Amazon for me! I read the shit out of whole books! I perused the Huffington Post, the New York Times and scientific journals at a leisurely pace. Back in the day, I didn’t feel pressured to appear like I give a fuck intelligent by posting interesting articles on LinkedIn. But those days are long gone.

What happened? I don’t have kids, I should have time to read. I could be wrong but I feel like this is why my parents forced me to go to school and got me a tutor when I couldn’t read, write or do math in the third grade. The math thing is still questionable. Please don’t ask me to count back change to you, this is what Excel is for so just back the fuck off. Okay?

Not so many years ago I did my nails and soaked my feet once a week. Now, if I sit still for five minutes, I'm bombarded in my brain by all the stuff I should be doing instead of taking care of myself, end up overwhelmed, watching TV while stuffing my face with Baked Cheetos and feeling sad that I’ll always be squishy if I don’t kick the Cheetos habit.

Therefore, I have made a life altering decision. I will no longer work on Sundays! In fact, I will no longer do anything for anybody but myself on Sundays! I will balance my checkbook! I will do my taxes! I will clean the house play with the dogs! I’m gonna do it all! I’m even going to print out a list I found on Pinterest that tells you when to do stuff around the house because there’s a good chance I wouldn’t remember to get dressed if Beast Master wasn't all like "You gonna put clothes on before you leave the house?". If we’re being honest, I just started remembering to turn off the oven when I take the food out of it. Where’s my gold star?

Anywho, I know it won’t be easy to stick with this decision so I've made a plan!

If some selfish asshat asks me to do something for them on a Sunday, even if they bat their eyelashes at me, I’m going to yell “NOOOO!” But I’m going to yell it in German because it will sound more intimidating. Then I’m going to drop to the ground, squeal like a pig and pretend that I’m having a seizure. 

This is what they used to tell me to do if a guy was going to rape me so I feel that it's the right way to handle the situation.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Writing This Made Me Stupid

It took me two weeks to think of a title for this post. Seriously. That's not a joke or an exaggeration. Two weeks. Pulling these words together into one place at one time has caused brain damage. I haven't slept in weeks, I can't focus. I can hear my brain buzzing.

Caution! Read this at your own risk. I cannot be held responsible for stupid shit that might spew from your face when you finish.

*  *  *  *  *  *
Have you ever met a person and immediately hated them? Their mere existence in the same space-time continuum as you creates such a rage that you feel the need to punt their ass across the state line? Have you ever felt like that about someone? There are words in the English language that make me feel this way. These words will turn your face into a Crap Cannon.

Irregardless. What is this? What the hell is this!? This is by far the most ignorant and uneducated word I have ever come across in my life. NASCAR races and Pumpkin Chunkin’ contests must be rife with this word. It is a double negative, People. A double negative. Why does nobody understand that by saying IRregardLESS they have cancelled out the IR and the LESS and now we’re back to regard which is the opposite of what they were trying to say? People who say Irregardless clearly do not understand the concept of a double negative otherwise they wouldn't be spewing shit like Irregardless from their pie holes.

HeigTHHHH. This is what happens when people pronounce height as if it ends in a TH. It doesn’t. Ever. Stop rearranging letters and making shit up.

Seemingly, the most gratuitous word in the world. Oy, this sneaky sonofabitch managed to get itself into the dictionary. It’s a real word. How did that happen? I hate this word because a situation/thing/whatever either seems to be or seems not to be cute/better/an idiot. When someone says something like “I was faced with a seemingly impossible task” I want to get right in their face and whisper through clenched teeth “It either seemed to be impossible or it didn’t!” Aaaaarrrgh! Why did we make a second word that means the same. exact. thing. as the first word?

Spunky and Spunk are just gross. They are gross words that should never be used in conjunction with statements about children. “Oh that little Susie! She’s sure spunky!” Eiw! What? Who did that to her? Oh my god, find the bastard and lock him up forever! Or “Honey, did you meet the neighbor’s new puppy? He’s sure got spunk” and then she’s all “You sick freak! Why would you do that to a puppy?” right before she calls the police on her husband.

Cloogy gives me that good old fashioned nails-on-chalkboard feeling. It's the latest buzz word in Corporate America. Cloogy is all the rage! The moment the word is shot out of a crap cannon, all I can picture is George Clooney spunkin’ up the place.
Employee #1: “I was working on the presentation all morning and then my computer went all cloogy!”
Employee #2: “Goddamn it, George!”

I've just done you a favor, People. Don't use these words. Especially don't use them if you're trying to impress somebody and if you use them at work because everybody else says them... well, you're breathing my air and that's a problem. Using words like vociferous is impressive. Using nonsensical, made up words like irregardless is not impressive. Are we clear?

On the other end of the spectrum is the best word in the world. Dongle! Seriously, whoever decided to name the thingy that takes data from here and moves it to there a dongle is my hero. Dongle is genius! Think about it. Silly word, world wide corporate acceptance, suckers! The guy who decided to call a dongle a dongle is probably sitting around, dangling a dongle and saying "Do you believe I named this thing a dongle and everybody just went with it?" Do you think anybody was like "Dongle? What are we? Five? That's the silliest word ever!"?

In other news, Beast Master's junk is now called The Dongle. Which, if you think about it, is accurate.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Six Excellent Reasons To Break My Leg On The Way To The Airport

I’m going to Detroit tomorrow for work and I might shit my pants. Seriously. I’m dreading this trip but not because of work. I like my job. I really, really like the people I work with. They are awesome and fun and nice and my job keeps me busy so I pretty much hit the jackpot here. I’m dreading this trip because:

  1. I’ve had a stomach thing going on for almost two weeks that involves incredible amounts of horrific, intestine twisting pain and acid gas.
  2. I’m allergic to just about every food out there and always starve when I go on trips. Being forced to starve by a world that doesn't give a fuck about food allergies makes me feel stabby. If there’s a chance, though, that starving will cure this stomach thing I'm down wit it. Jiggy. That's me.
  3. I don’t know how to sleep while waiting to be murdered in my hotel room without Sidekick pressed up against my back so I will sleep a total of 6 hours in 3 days which will result in me fucking up work, over sleeping and missing a flight because that’s how shit goes down when I travel. Once, I fell asleep in the terminal and missed my flight. The Crumb at the desk said they paged me like 10 times. HELLO! I. Was. Right. There!!!
  4. I’m traveling with my own coconut milk in juice boxes (see item #2) which means I have to check my bag which also means that the milk will explode in my suitcase so I wrapped my clothes in a garbage bag but someone will turn my suitcase upside down and the milk will get into the garbage bag and all over my clothes, leaving me with nothing but the clothes on my back to wear until the end of the week. And because the milk exploded I will have nothing to eat but black coffee and dry rice chex all week. I suppose I could put the rice chex in the coffee while I quiet cry.
  5. I have anxiety disorder and don’t function without my dogs. I have trouble making decisions such as Pants or No Pants on a good day. This week is going to be a fucking shit show. I won’t remember any of it by Friday.
  6. Odds are very good that I will shit my pants in Detroit because this is the sort of stomach ailment that comes with the kind of gas you can’t trust (see items 1 and 2). Am I gonna fart or am I gonna shit? Oh, I see. Both. I’m going to do both. I packed extra underwear and socks.
Advance apologies to everyone on my plane tomorrow.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

The Shart of The Matter

72% of shopping carts tested positive for fecal matter according to a report from Faux News. In fact, shopping carts are dirtier than public bathrooms. No small achievement based on what I’ve seen go down in women’s restrooms up and down the east coast. I Snoped it because Faux News makes stories up all the time and 72% seemed like a lowball number. I mean, we’ve all been to Walmart, right?

I thought about this 72% fecal matter today as I drove home from the grocery store. I had a particularly nasty cart with some kind of unidentified brown sticky stuff all over the handle. Was it baby barf? Perhaps it was fruit juice? Personally I’d prefer the baby barf because I’m allergic to fruit but whatever it was it was a sticky germ trap for all the feces on all the hands that came before mine.

I thought about this as I drove home, eating Cheetos and sucking the orange “cheese” dust off my fingers and out from under my nails. My fingers and nails that had just manhandled a nasty, shit laden shopping cart around a grocery store for 30 minutes. For a second, just a second, I was like “OH MY GOD! I just sucked somebody’s shit off my fingers!” But then I thought about all the times in my 38 years that I’ve had shit in my mouth in some form or another and I’m a pretty fucking healthy person. I think I’ve used hand sanitizer all of 3 times in my life and only because some germaphobe made me use it. But let’s go back to the fact that I’ve had shit in my mouth. Numerous times.

Back in high school I was sitting outside with my friends between classes and a bird crapped in my mouth. A bird. Shit. In my mouth. That was the last time I laughed freely under an open sky. How many points do you think that bird got? I’ll bet he got all the birdy ladies after that hole in one.

During college I interned at a zoo. ‘Nuff said. Maybe not if you’re not familiar with animal husbandry so let me explain. I worked in the African Plains area of the zoo. Think elephants, giraffes, zebras, bongos, cheetahs. I spent my mornings shoveling hundreds of pounds of elephant shit into wheelbarrows, up a ramp and into the back of a dump truck. Then we’d drive the dump truck to the other side of the zoo, dump the shit out, climb into the back of the truck and clean out the shit that didn’t fall out on its own. Then we’d go to lunch. I cannot tell you the number of times I’d pull my sandwich out of its baggy, get halfway through it, see my filthy shit covered hands holding the delicate white bread, think “Meh, too late now” and keep eating. I feel confident saying there’s been elephant shit in my mouth.

And let’s not forget about the time the monkey threw hot, fresh shit in my face while I was cleaning the enclosure. Sure it was a tiny Cotton Top Tamarin with a green Mohawk but his aim was true. So true.

Crazy eats copious amounts of crap. She prefers it soft serve direct from the factory but will eat it day old too. We don’t let Crazy kiss us but she’s got that Ninja Tongue action going on and sometimes you’ll be talking or laughing and SLURP!! Open mouth, insert Crazy tongue.

Are we keeping track? Bird, elephant, monkey, dog. Considering the number of times I’ve ripped open a bag of Cheetos on the way home from the supermarket I think it’s probably safe to add human to that list. 

So I’m driving home from the supermarket, sucking orange “cheese” off my fingers that were already sticky from the mystery goo on the shopping cart, thinking about that fact that 72% (minimum) of shopping carts are coated in shit and the fact that I’ve inadvertently eaten a lot of shit over the years and I thought “Whelp. Nothing I can do about that now” and kept eating the precious Cheetos and sucking on my fingers. 

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Hell is...

Lying in bed for six hours, staring at the ceiling, occasionally dreaming of a hot guy with limited intelligence and his unfortunate brother with red, yellow, and green glass teeth who – whether exercising on the beach, hiking Roaring Brook Road or hanging around the mansion – will never leave me alone with said hot dumb guy, getting repeatedly punched in the face and stomach by the largest monkey and why do my sheets smell like mildew or maybe the monkey farted.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

A Tiger, A Panther And My Mother Walk Into My Head

The monkeys and I are hanging out in my parents’ backyard and Sidekick jumps onto a boulder growing through the fence. That’s not a typo. The boulder grew through the fence. I run over to grab him before he jumps into the abyss and there it is. A tiger hiding in the grass outside the fence stalking my dogs! Bitch is not going to get my monkeys! Crazy runs over barking and growling, the tiger starts crawling forward. This is it. I have to move. And make a decision. I grab Sidekick and Crazy by their collars and run for the house. I yell for Boppo and Doodles to get to the house. Boppo makes a beeline (for once) but Doodles stands his ground barking at the advancing tiger. I get the other three in the house and run back for Doodle, screaming at the top of my lungs “GET AWAY FROM MY DOODLE!” I grab him, stuff him under my arm and run. When I look behind me the tiger is climbing over the boulder and has transformed into a black panther. The large cat, not the African-American revolutionary kind of black panther.

Now we’re in the kitchen looking out the sliding door to the patio where three women are standing, wearing lab coats over red dresses and holding clip boards. They're pointing at the house and trying to tell me that I need to come outside so they can talk to me about insulating the house. I’m no idiot! I know they’re the tiger-panther and they want to eat my monkeys. I’m not stupid. I’m a brunette now.

Suddenly the tiger is right there clawing at the sliding door trying to get it open! WHY? Why is this tiger so intent on getting my monkeys? She gets the door open an inch and I am trying so hard to get it closed again but the monkeys are trying to get the door open from the inside so they can fight the tiger! Boppo’s got his nose shoved into the open inch trying to help the tiger open the door. Seriously. We are not on the same wavelength at all. I need to call for help!

I reach up and grab the phone on the wall, it’s a really old one with a hundred foot long twisted up cord. I’ve got it clamped between my ear and shoulder with the cord wrapped around me, the monkeys are getting tangled in it and I call… my mother. Not the police. I call my mother. This is the ensuing conversation:

Me: Ma! Call the police! Three women and a tiger-panther thing are trying to kill us!
Ma: What? Three women? Who are they trying to kill?
Me: They’re the tiger and panther! They want to eat the monkeys!
Ma: Monkeys? Are on you something?
Me: Just call the police! They’re trying to kill us! They’re at the door, I can’t keep them out!
Ma: I’m at a Sisterhood meeting. What’s going on? I’m busy, can I call you back?
Me: Jesus Christ, Ma! Call the police!
Ma: I don’t understand. What do the women have to do with the tiger?
Me: Just call someone! Help us, please!
Ma: I’m busy. Hang up and call the police.
Me: MA! Help! Please!
Ma: You’re not making sense and I’m at a meeting. I have to go now.

So I had a dream that a tiger-panther-woman thing was trying to kill my monkeys and it turns out the whole thing was about my mother.