Do The Kittens Have Large Talons?

"Guess what! I'm getting a kitten!"
(This is me, being irrational but acting like I'm being rational.)

"Natasha."
(This is my sister, sighing my name as if she's about to respond with something rational.)

"What?"
(This is me, already knowing what she's going to say but pretending not to know.)

"How are you gonna take care of a kitten? You can't even take care of yourself."
(This is my sister doing exactly as I predicted previously.)

"Oh my GOD, just because I wear diapers does not mean I can't take care of myself. It means I can take care of myself and I can take care of diaper-disposal."
(This is me, making an immature joke about walking around in my feces because I already know she's going to win this argument.)

"You can't even afford to feed yourself. How are you going to feed a kitten?"
(Don't you just hate that? When people make sense? It's so pretentious.)

"Well, I already told the woman I'd pick up her kitten tomorrow so ha-HA!"
(This is me "making sense." Please note that making sense and "making sense" are two completely different things.)

No one seemed to agree with my brilliant plan of owning a pet. Amidst my discussions with people of Mission Meow, many words seemed to work their way into the debate. Words such as:

Irresponsible.
As in, "You're too irresponsible."

Shit.
As in, "The last time you had a kitten, you let it shit everywhere."

God damn shit.
As in, "You also never cleaned up its god damn shit."

And honky.
As in, "Look at that honky eatin' some damn noodles!"

I don't know how that last one got into the cat-conversation. Now that I think about it, I think that was a different conversation altogether. Actually, that may have never even been said until just now.

Regardless, I knew this time would be different from the last. One, I am 21-years-old now, which is basically 43, so I'm certainly at the maturity level to care for an animal. Two, I don't live with roommates who have shit for heads. I know they would not give away my kitten while I was away in class, without telling me, LIKE THE LAST MOTHER FUCKERS DID. And three, please refer to reasons one and two.

But, everyone was advising me not to. And I knew they were right. And I knew they were rational. And I knew I was wrong. I knew I wasn't ready. Maybe I would be in the future, but not now. I knew that patience is a virtue, and there will always be kittens out there for me to make my own. I knew...I should wait.

BUT I DID IT ANYWAY. Ha-HA! SUCK IT.

We're Goin' With Eggplant

It's 12:19am, and I can't sleep. I've been able to come up with a few reasons this inability to render myself unconscious is occurring. I'm having trouble sleeping because either:


A. My mind is exploding with genius ideas and advanced epiphanies that are so complicated and brilliant that my mind is unable to shut itself off.


or:


B. I drank a 20oz Red Bull an hour ago.


If you guessed A, I'm extremely flattered, but not at all impressed with your ignorance - or convinced of your current sobriety, for that matter. You obviously are having trouble reading small print. Don't drive anywhere tonight.


If you guessed B, I'm extremely insulted, and not at all impressed with your dyslexia. Fcuk yuo.


I just reeled you in to a lose-lose situation, which seems to be the one I am in right now. Maybe I can't sleep because I'm sitting at my computer typing. Yet I'm sitting at my computer typing because I can't sleep. Alright, enough with the tongue-twisters disguised as abstract concepts. Let's get to the bottom of this.


I can't sleep because I have a lot on my mind.


1. This week's work schedule was posted today. I'm working 67 hours. My free time this week will consist of the minute it takes me to get out of bed.
2. George Carlin is dead. No one cared to tell me this back in 2008 when it actually occurred.
3. Why is there still talk about changing Cookie Monster to Veggie Monster? What the hell is wrong with Cookie Monster? 


I'm going to focus on Number 3 for the remainder of my rambling.


For the past few years, there has been talk that Cookie Monster from Sesame Street (I find those last three words to be completely unnecessary, but I felt the need to specify which Cookie Monster I was speaking of, in case you knew another Cookie Monster. Which, by the way, would be really fucking weird.) will be replaced with Veggie Monster. They say that Veggie Monster would eat vegetables (again, an unnecessary statement) and he would be orange. Already, I'm a little pissed off.


Orange? Orange? FIRST OF ALL, if someone were to say, "Name a food that's orange," are you going to say carrot? No. When someone says, "Name a food that's orange," you're going to say, "ORANGE." And an orange is a what, boys and girls? IT'S A FRUIT. And Veggie Monster does not eat fruit, because then he would be called Fruity Monster, and if parents are going to find a reason to complain about Cookie Monster, they sure as hell are gonna find a reason to complain about a character named "Fruity Monster."


SECOND OF ALL, vegetables aren't mainly orange. They're mainly green. Why wouldn't Veggie Monster be green? Sense just isn't as common as it once was.


However, this transformation has not occurred. Instead, Cookie Monster has been acting healthier on the show, saying things such as, "Cookies are a sometimes snack" and that he also likes "fruits and eggplant."


FIRST OF ALL, eggplant? What? Fruits and eggplant? How did THAT one get written in the script?


"John, great script for this next show, but I have one problem."


"What, Dick?"


"Well, here on page 4, you have Cookie Monster saying he likes fruits and vegetables."


"Well, didn't you say we had to make him eat healthier?"


"Yeah...but...vegetables?"


"I mean...that's healthy...and something kids never want to eat..."


"Yeah yeah, I'm just not feelin' it, John."


"We could change it to carrots? Or broccoli?"


"Ehhhhhh....nah. I was thinking something more along the lines of "eggplant." "


"Eggplant?"


"Yeah yeah, eggplant. Fruits and eggplant."


"But what parent serves their kid eggpl---"


"Look, John, eggplants are good."


"Well sure they are, but..."


"We're goin' with eggplant."


"So you want me to change "fruits" to something more specific, too?"


"Ehhhhh...nah. Fruits and eggplant is good. Has a nice ring to it. May make a good song in a later episode. Yeah yeah. Fruits and eggplant."


SECOND OF ALL, when I started googling "cookie monster saying," the little bar dropped down showing me suggestions to finish my statement. My options were "cookie monster sayings," "cookie monster saying me love cookies," and "cookie monster saying what the hell is this crap." I don't believe I remember Cookie Monster ever asking that last one.


Now, don't think they may not remove Cookie Monster. Amidst my detailed research of the popular children's educational program, I came across a few interesting facts. It turns out they have taken characters off the show.


Take Don Music, for example. He loved music. He even played the piano. However, many parents started complaining when their children started imitating Don Music at home. They would play the piano, just like Don Music did, get frustrated, just like Don Music did, and then start violently banging their head against the piano - just like Don Music did. I can only imagine those newspaper headlines.


"8-YEAR OLD SELF-INFLICTS A MINOR CONCUSSION AFTER SESAME STREET EPISODE. PUPPETEERS PERMANENTLY REMOVE THEIR FISTS FROM INSIDE DON MUSIC"


So my final question is: Why Don Music? Why Cookie Monster? Are they the only characters on the show who are a bit controversial? What about all the others? Let's say I'm a concerned, uptight, anal parent, and I sit down to watch Sesame Street with my child. Cue the paranoia. Let the over-analyzing begin.


Big Bird - Big Bird? As in, giving someone "the bird?" As in saying "fuck you?" Or "fuck off?" So his real name is, "Big Fuck Off?" And why is it big? Why is his middle finger a big middle finger? Is it because he has big hands? Which means he has a big penis? My child is learning from a character who is BASICALLY named Big Penis? 


Oscar the Grouch - Now, who is that green character, honey? And why is he in a trash can? He lives there? And why is he being mean to Big Bird? He's always mean? Well what does he have against Big Bird? He's mean to everybody? So he doesn't have a home and he's always in a bad mood? He's what? He's homeless and miserable? Except when he what? When he drinks? Junior! Where did you hear such things?! What? Daddy did NOT say that. Daddy isn't homeless.


The Count - Cannibal. 


Snuffleupagus - Created on an acid trip.


Bert and Ernie - Too obvious.


Elmo - You want a what for Christmas? A Tickle-Me-WHAT?! Oh, oh, you said El-mo. Elmo, from Sesame Street? Oh, how great! So what does this Elmo toy do? Does he recite the alphabet? Does he sing happy sing-a-longs? He what? He asks you to tickle him? And then what? Right, right...but then what does he do? He giggles? He giggles and asks for more? Well, where do you tickle him? ANYWHERE?! Is that all this toy does?! He just asks you to touch him and gives you positive feedback when you touch him ANYWHERE?!


Well, I've officially gotten all my thoughts out. Maybe I can get some good sleep now and wake up to a healthy eggplant breakfast.

Bigfoot Ain't Got Nothin' On Me

The older you get, the more difficult it is to get away with things. This is a sad fact. Another sad fact is that Maurice Sendak passed away this week, and another is that there is only one person in the entire world who has been able to get away with a giant red afro. Props to Annie.


I'm not here to give you sad facts. I'm here to tell you that as years are added to your existence, the number of escape routes is subtracted. I'm here to tell you that I miss middle school.


Yes, middle school. Yes, I went from talking about death to musical homeless children to seventh grade in a matter of seconds. You know that thing called structure? That thing called organization? Relevance? Yeah, you won't find that here. If you want that, go read the dictionary.


Middle school is the last time I can remember where I could truly get away with anything. NO, I'm not going to backtrack all the way to the days of being a drooling baby. That's just too obvious. Everyone gets away with anything when they're a slobbering one-sixth of a human being. And if you are not one of these people, if you are one of the few who got plopped down in The Naughty Highchair every time you shit your shit-holder, then I'm truly sorry. That means you got punished three times a day for the first 3 years of your life. That means you got ridiculed 1,095 times before you even learned to keep your saliva in your mouth. Not to mention the giant rash I'm sure you acquired from being in a seated position for the majority of your life. I feel for you. I can't even handle the two bug bites I currently bear that are located in the crevice of my left buttcheek and my upper thigh. Do you know what that's like? To be forced to endure an itchy crevice in a spot you can't publicly scratch? Because no, I'm not going to walk around clenching the bottom of my ass. I'd have to bend over a little bit sideways and a little bit backwards, first of all, then I'd have to inch my fingernails in between the cheek and the leg, second of all, then I'd have to clench my hand in and out repeatedly, third of all. I refuse to do that. And I refuse to continue talking about it.


Ah, middle school. When I think back to middle school, I don't think back to 5th and 6th grade. Those were the days of furry shirts and being told I needed to start shaving my legs, because my knees were apparently very hairy. One of my teachers actually started calling me "Hairy" whenever he saw me, because my friend informed him of my Bigfootesque knees. Even after I gave in and started shaving, he still called me Hairy. I don't care. Really. I don't. Nope, don't care. I'm talking about it 10 years later BECAUSE I don't care. Bigfoot ain't got nothin' on me. 


There are three things I miss most about middle school: things that my friends and I could get away with it, things that I know for a fact I could NOT get away with now.


In middle school, you could get away with...


1. Pushing People Into Other People 


I'm not being figurative here. I'm not talking about "pushing the envelope" or "if push comes to shove" - I'm talking about "pushing the person next to you" and "pushing and shoving are the same damn thing." I don't know how it began, but I know that it provided days and days of entertainment. I don't care if our world becomes ruled by robots and 3D life-size Tamagotchis - people getting slightly injured will always be funny. It's pretty self-explanatory, but in case it isn't, I'll self-explain it.


You're walking down the hall with a friend. You're heading to class; you're going east. Someone passes the two of you. This person is carrying books in both hands, and they just happen to be heading west. You're on the outside of your friend. You see this as a perfect opportunity. Without hesitation, without contemplation or notification, you ram your left shoulder into your friend hard enough to send your innocent and inattentive amigo directly into the person walking past the two of you. BAM! The two collide. The other person, the one who doesn't go around searching for chances to ram their buddies into other people, drops all of their things, or says "OW!" or starts crying, or gives you a dirty look, or exclaims, "I'M TELLING!" Any one of these reactions is THE reaction you were going for. You find this just hilarious that you just upset a clueless pedestrian, and even hurt them a little. Did they deserve it? Probably not. But that's part of the humor. Your friend starts cracking up, as well. "You really got me that time!" they say, knowingly dedicating the rest of their school day to getting you back. And you eagerly await it. 


Of course it started with pushing each other into boys we liked. Then that became boring (cute boys in middle school aren't really a plentiful bunch), so we decided to just start pushing each other into anyone who could walk (a much larger group to pick from), then even that became mundane (they all started to walk as far away from us as possible once they caught onto our antics), and so the last group left for us to target were our teachers. We soon discovered that teachers don't react in the same way as fellow classmates. Fellow classmates can't send you to the principal's office.


That one ended fast.


In middle school, you could get away with...


2. Shoving Pillows Under Your Shirts and Making Fun of Fat People


Well, I just kind of gave that one away, didn't I? I thought of titling it "being really, really mean" - but that's not really something I wish I could get away with now. I vividly remember one specific sleepover with a bunch of girls (obviously I didn't attend sleepovers with a bunch of boys), and a certain somebody got brought up. We did not like this girl because she used to pay boys to allow her to call them things like "honey buns" and "baby poo." I'm sure if this girl made a list like this of her own, that would be on it. It's certainly a habit you cannot get away with later in life. Or ever, for that matter. It wasn't a very successful tactic.


This girl was not fat. But since she was heavier than any of us, we came to the consensus that she was a gigantic heifer. (Please remember, we were in middle school.)


Again, who started it? Who knows. What matters is that once one pillow was shoved up one shirt, it took two seconds for six different pillows to be shoved up six different shirts. Six girls, waddling around like sumo wrestlers, speaking in deep voices (which made absolutely no sense since we were making fun of a prepubescent female), rubbing our pillow-tummies and climbing up onto things like monkeys. Yes, we were climbing. One by one, we would mount ourselves up onto the back of a chair, or the back of a couch, and we would shout "I'M BETSYYYYY! BE MY HONEY BUNS!" and we'd leap off of the couch and land on our stomach, cushioned by the pillow. It really did not hold much reason at all, since "Betsy" was not known to climb up onto things and belly-flop onto the ground, but this mattered not. All we knew was we had pillows stuffed in our shirts, and the only logical thing to do was bounce around on them.


In middle school, you could get away with...


3. Not Wearing Shoes


I must admit, I never personally experienced this one. But just because I did not partake in it does not mean I did not witness it. One of my closest friends in middle school randomly started this habit of not wearing her shoes at school. She would arrive to school with them on, yes, but as soon as she stepped into that building, some ever-powerful being was telling her:


"Take off your shoes...just take 'em off...who needs shoes...the floor is so cold...it feels so good on your hot feet...socks are enough...who needs shoes when you have socks..."


One minute we'd be walking to class, and the next thing you knew, we were at a standstill.


"Hold on."


"No, we're gonna be late! Did you forget something?"


"Yes."


"What?"


"I forgot to take off my shoes."


"What?"


"I have to go put my shoes in my locker."


"Can't it wait?"


"No. I don't want to wear my shoes."


"But you didn't want to wear your shoes yesterday!"


"Yeah, but I'm not finished."


"Not finished with what?"


"Not finished not wearing my shoes."


After weeks of playing George of the Middle School, our principal began to notice that one of us had shoes that all-too-closely resembled socks...


"Stop please."


"Oh, hello Mr. Goose! We're just heading to class."


"Where are your shoes, Ms. Penny?"


"I took them off."


"And why did you do that?"


"I didn't want to wear them."


"Where are they?"


"In my locker."


"Go get your shoes, please, Ms. Penny, and I'll write you a tardy excuse."


As if a tardy excuse sufficed. Teachers don't take tardy excuses and not read them. This was yet another hilarious part of the whole situation: seeing our teacher's reaction after reading:


TARDY SLIP: Ms. Penny will be late to class because she was barefoot.


Even after countless tardy slips and lectures from the principal, she continued to never wear her shoes. Perhaps if this odd behavior had been ignored, she would have eventually started wearing them again. But since it got so much attention, entertaining our entire group of friends every single day, the behavior continued. Joel Goodsen ain't got nothin' on her.


At 21 years old, could I get away with this now? Could I walk around pushing humans into other humans on the street as hard as I could? No, I'd probably get shot. Could I stuff bedding into my clothes and yell at others in a deep voice? No, I'd probably get arrested. Could I go everywhere barefoot? No, I'd probably be handed money from strangers walking past me with them saying, "Spend it wisely, you poor thing." I could do those things then, but I can't do them now, even though I'm the exact same person. It's a sad fact, BUT - you know what I can do? I can write about it.

Dashbodorant

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"


This is really an odd question to be so common. Whenever someone asks you what you are doing, and yells it in doing so, chances are, they already know what you're doing. For example:


Situation A: Question is spoken.


"What are you doing?"


"I'm eating spaghetti."


"Oh, I did not know that."


Situation B: Question is shouted.


"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"


"I'm eating spaghetti."


"I KNOW! THAT'S MY SPAGHETTI! GET YOUR DAMN HANDS OFF MY FLEXIBLE NOODLES!"


In this particular situation, I was in Scenario B. I asked what someone was doing, when I knew very well what it was they were doing. Nonetheless, I proceeded to inquire.


"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"


"I'm looking in your car."


"I KNOW! DON'T!"


"Don't look in your car?"


"NO!"


"Why? Why can't I look in your car?"


"JUST DON'T LOOK IN IT, OKAY?"


"Can I look at it?"


"NO!"


"I can't look at your car."


"NO!"


"Well, Natasha, it's a little difficult for me to avoid glancing at the 3,126 - pound object that is sitting outside my house, in my driveway, sitting directly in the path I take to get to my own vehicle."


Now, I'm sure my emotional response to someone glancing in my car window was a little suspicious. You may be thinking, "Who cares? Someone looked in your car window." UH YEAH. How would you feel if you looked outside your bedroom window, and there was someone's face, looking in at you? Rubbing themselves? You may be thinking, "A bedroom window is completely different from a car window." You may be thinking, "If someone looks in your car, they're peering at leather seats. If someone looks in your house, they're peering at you. It's completely different." You may be thinking, "Hold on a second, rubbing themselves? That's completely irrelevant. No one was standing outside of your car rubbing themselves." You may be thinking, "How does Natasha know what I'm thinking?" You may be thinking, "When is she going to stop guessing what I'm thinking?" Unfortunately, I only have a response for two of your thoughts : right now, and no, no one was rubbing themselves - I don't know what made me say that.


EITHER WAY - I've been conditioned to freak out whenever someone approaches my car due to many different past experiences. 


Experience One


KA-POW!


"Please don't kick my car. Leave him out of this, and step away from the vehicle."


Experience Two


"Who's driving?"


"I'll drive!"


"Okay!"
(Door is opened.)


"Uhhh...what'sss....that...smell...."


"You know what, you can drive actually."


Experience Three


"Is that a piece of moldy pizza in your glove compartment?"


Experience Four


"Is that a piece of moldy pizza in your center console?"


Experience Five


"Is that a piece of moldy pizza squished to your steering wheel?"


These are just a few experiences. There are two specific things, however, that constantly get brought up whenever someone sits in my car.


The Mess


"Do you live in your car?"


"What? No."


"But you have pillows in the backseat..."


"Well ---"


"And a blanket..."


"That's for ---"


"And a toothbrush under your seat..."


"I don't use ---"


"And deodorant on your dashboard..."


"It's DashBOdorant, that's what you're supposed to do with it."


"Okay, well what about all the clothes..."


"In case I need to layer."


"And the underwear..."


"In case...I need...to layer...my underwear..."


"You layer your ---"


"CROTCHES GET CHILLY TOO, YA KNOW."


The Smell


"You car reeks!"


"You have no right to say that."


"Yes I do, I have to sit in it!"


"That's funny, because I remember once when a RAT DIED in your car and you couldn't FIND THE BODY and we had to endure the ROTTING STENCH until it decided to go away."


"You car smells even worse. Like ten rats. Dead."


"Ten? More like three. And not rats, mice."


"Three mice?"


"Blind."


"Your car smells like three blind mice?"


"Yep. In a bubble bath."


"That's Rub-A-Dub-Dub, Three Men in a Tub."


"No, my car does not smell like three men in a tub."


"What do three men in a tub even smell like?"


"Sweet Pea..."


"The fragranc---"


"Nis."


Returning to my Scenario, Situation B, I was in no mood to deal with anyone commenting on my car.


"Is that a giant pile of ash below your radio?"


Like that. I was not in the mood to hear that. So I, yet again, tell this person to not look in my car.


"Dad, please don't look in my car."


Yes, I was talking to my dad. WHICH IS WHERE THE ROOT OF THIS ALL STARTED.


It was 2008. Springtime. I had not even turned 18 years old yet. I walk outside my front door, only to run into my father walking toward me from where?


From my car.


"Natasha, I need to talk to you."


"About what?"


"About THIS."


"What...is...."


"A CONDOM, NATASHA."


"Why do you need to talk to me about a condom...?"


"A CONDOM I FOUND IN YOUR CAR."


"Well, it's not mine!"


"WHY DO YOU HAVE A CONDOM IN YOUR CAR."


"I don't know how it got there! Even if it was mine, it's not like it was used. It's still in the package!"


"WHY DO YOU HAVE A CONDOM IN YOUR CAR."


"I'm sure---"


"WHY DO YOU HAVE A CONDOM IN YOUR CAR."


"Dad---"


"WHY DO YOU HAVE A CONDOM IN YOUR CAR."


"I've never even had sex! I'm sure someone was in my car and just dropped it!"


"WHO WOULD HAVE A CONDOM WITH THEM."


"Any teenage boy..."


"I just hope you are not having sex."


"Dad, I'm not."


"I'm just looking out for you."


"I know, Dad. But please don't search through my car."


After The Rubber Run-In came The Marlboro-Misunderstanding.


It was 2008. Again, springtime, shortly after the condom incident.


"WHAT IS THIS NATASHA."


My dad had come into my bedroom, full-handed. When I had heard "this," I was expecting precisely that - a "this." As in something singular. As in one thing. What he should have said was, "What are these."


There he stood, in my room, holding not one, not two, not three or four, but five packs of cigarettes. Plus two lighters.


"I FOUND THIS IN YOUR CAR."


"Dad, I told you not to go in my car!"


"ARE YOU SMOKING."


"Why did you go in ---"


"ARE YOU SMOKING."


"Dad, you ---"


"ARE YOU SMOKING."


"No! Well, sometimes. But those aren't mine! I smoke a cigarette every once in awhile, but I don't have FIVE packs of cigarettes just to give me options! I don't even buy them; I just bum from other people! Let me see those."


He holds them up even higher than they had already been positioned in the air. Three packs in one hand, and two in the other - along with the two lighters.


"Uhhh..."


"NATASHA."


"The Reds are Jimmy's, the Smooths are Chris's, the Lights are James's. The Turkish Royals are Caroline's and that pack of cloves? I have NO idea whose those are."


"I don't want you smoking."


"I know."


"I'm just looking out for you."


"I know, Dad. But please don't search through my car."


"Alright."


Then he places all 5 packs on my dresser, plus the two lighters, and leaves my room.


And this is exactly why I become paranoid whenever someone looks in my car. A lot of the time, I don't even have anything in there that would upset anyone. But sometimes, just sometimes, you might just find a moldy piece of pizza.