Tag Archives: cat

Blinded By the Light

I had to go to the eye doctor last week.

My old one retired and I had been putting it off, but I decided to be an adult and go get a check-up, if only to see if they offered new lenses that could filter out everyone’s Instagram selfies or give me that sexy librarian look.

No and no, by the way.

Anyway, what they tell you:

Bring along the paperwork with your contact information, (lack of) vision insurance data and any family history of glaucoma, cataracts or having their eyes poked out with a sharp stick back in the 50s—or something extensively similar along those lines.

What they don’t tell you:

Everyone who works in the office will wear glasses. I don’t know if they’re unaware that contacts exist or if they only hire people with eye issues as to appear sympathetic to patients, but even the fish in the tank will have little sea spectacles so as to better see the algae they’re gumming.

Unlike other doctor visits, it is not—I repeat NOT—necessary to strip down to your underwear in the exam room while waiting for the doctor to see you. Good to know for next time.

The doctor will attempt—and temporarily succeed—to turn you into a demented X-Men/vampire character.

I wasn’t aware that was part of the deal, but after the exam he tilted my head back, put in two different kinds of drops, gave me a tissue and told me he would be back in 10 minutes once my eyes dilated.

I returned my head to the upright position and had the strange sensation of my eyes leaking — I think sensitive people call this “crying”— and I wiped away artificially-dyed yellow tears.

I sat there waiting with burning and blurring eyes until he came back, jammed a flashlight into my face and declared me in good optical health. In fact, I didn’t even need to get new glasses.

At this point in the darkened room I had no idea I was in the middle of a mutant transformation. He warned me that the light would be bright walking out, and I resisted the urge to ask him if water in the sink would be wet. It seemed like an obvious statement. Light is bright. Thanks for the tip, there buddy!

Until I walked into the wall.

Once the door was opened and I was thrust into the light, I felt like a vampire pulled from my cave. I bounced off the wall like a ping-pong ball as he gently guided my arm to the desk where I paid for the bruise on my head and the yellow tears in my eyes.

I stumbled to the car, quickly slipped on my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust for a bit before driving. And I waited—at least a good two or three minutes—and then took a look at myself in the mirror.


Not only was my one coat of mascara washed off, but I had become a creature with yellow corneas, dilated pupils so large only a tiny strip of green iris was left and the vision of Mr. Magoo. Great for Halloween, not so much for doing things like being seen in public or seeing anything in general.

I realized I could see far away but not up close, so I quickly slipped my sunglasses back on (out of necessity) and made my way to the gas station where my lack of clear vision up close resulted in spending an extra $10 just trying to get the pump to end on an even amount.

Once I finally arrived back home and determined it was not in fact a giant rat in my kitchen but the cat—a cat that took one look at my eyes and went running away—I shut all the blinds, slipped on my sunglasses and stumbled onto the couch.

Now I’m not saying I needed Wolverine’s claws—I’m clumsy with a butter knife—but I did kind of want a new power to go with my dilated pupils. Heck, I would have settled for eyelashes that didn’t get stuck in my eye.

Way to do your job and keep crap out of my eye, eyelashes!

But I guess I’ll settle for the return of “normal” eyes, the ability to go out in the sun and a Halloween costume idea–a vegan vampire. 

Works for me.

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A Hidden, Hairy Agenda

I’ve made no secret of the fact that despite my best intentions, I’m not a cat person but still own a cat because I don’t always make good decisions. 

But my hairy little roommate is stuck with me (and vice versa) until we put her cold dead body in a sweater and bury her in the backyard (not vice versa, as I can’t see her using a shovel with any degree of dexterity.)

And while she might be cute and sweet and blah, blah, blah, she’s also not pulling her weight. The other day she spent 10 minutes watching me try and capture a freaking fly before rolling her eyes, opening up the slider and simply shooing it out.

This is what I have to live with.

I guess I really can’t blame her. Her days are spent lounging in luxury without a care in the world — or at least that’s how it would seem.

A Day In the Life

Wait outside bedroom door for human to rise. Marvel that she survives on less than 22 hours of sleep.

Trip her going down the stairs. (Pro tip: Be careful. It doesn’t do any good to trip them if they fall on top of you. Food will be delayed.)

Act like I haven’t had food in three days, sniff bowl, walk away.

While she showers, find the one thing she doesn’t want me to lie on and lie on it until she’s done.


Trip her going up the stairs.


Trip her going down the stairs.

Once she’s at work, lie on the bed that I’m not supposed to go on.

Somehow find a way to eat straw from the fake tree even though she’s attempted to stop this by covering it with a towel and packing tape. It’s like she doesn’t want me to have any fun.

Puke up straw from the fake tree. Shrug. Sleep. Repeat.


In moment of weakness, allow myself to be picked up for 2.5 seconds. Feel cheap. Run away.

Pretend to like new toy filled with catnip for 1.3 seconds before playing with a piece of rice that was dropped on the floor.


Strategically place death toy in anticipated path of human so she steps on it, letting out all of the catnip and colorful language.

Watch her clean out my shit box. Gaze at her in a way that implies, “More enthusiasm, and with a smile. You missed a spot.”


Where are my drugs? Must find my drugs!!!

Feel catnip buzz wear off and crave treats. Roll on back and implement “teats for treats” campaign in front of treat stash until she caves.


Run from sun room to the kitchen 74 times for no apparent reason.

Wait until she’s settled on the couch before staring into empty fireplace in a way that convinces her there are ghosts taking up residence.


Try like hell to catch the red dot for 4 seconds before resuming the staring contest with my reflection in the glass fireplace doors.

I am beautiful. Another clear indication that this woman is not my real mother.

Wait until she’s ready to go to bed and resume my wind sprints throughout the house.

Go find that bowl full of food.  I need to make sure she feels useful. Plus, I need energy to do it all over tomorrow. 

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