Tag Archives: day in the life

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.

 moniebag

Trip her going up the stairs.

THE NOISE! THE NOISE! SHE’S USING THE HAIRDRYER AGAIN! MUST SEEK SHELTER!

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.

SHE’S HOME! SHE’S HOME!

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.

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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.”

OH MY GOD THE VACUUM IS ON AND IT’S LIKE SHE’S TRYING TO SUCK OUT MY SOUL!!!

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.

Sucker.

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.

ALERT! ALERT! THERE’S THE RED LASER LIGHT AGAIN! MAYBE THERE ARE REALLY GHOSTS!

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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A Day in the Life

Sometimes I envy bloggers who live super exciting lives filled with travel and social engagements that make for great stories. Then I remember that I don’t really enjoy traveling and only like being social in limited doses, so that envy gets wiped away with my Wet Jet on “Swiffer Saturday.”

excited-having-plans-break-weekend-ecards-someecards

But I thought I would humor myself and the dozens who read this with a hypothetical “day in the life” post.*

*Some of the logistics are a bit fuzzy, but that’s only because the day was so full and enriching that details fell by the wayside. Or maybe it’s because of the Vodka. Don’t judge.

5 a.m. Alarm rings for work.

5:01 a.m. Remember I’m working from home, seeing as I got that great gig writing a “Dear Abby”-type column. Throw alarm across the room.

8 a.m. Wake up again on my own.

8: 15 a.m. Remind hot hockey player boy toy to lock the door as he leaves. Thank him for his services the night before (I could never have cleaned the gutters on my roof without his help.)

8:30 a.m. Be grateful I can wake up and do exactly what I love—eat—and do just that, enjoying the first of many feedings for the day. 

8:45 a.m. Go online. Read that the Tigers have continued their 82-game winning streak and see my inbox is filled with fan mail, freelance writing opportunities that require minimal thinking/maximum pay and coupons for all my favorite products.

9 a.m. Work out. Learn that anyone—male or female—who marinates in perfume, refuses to wipe off the machine or wears shorts so short and tight they would be considered in bad taste at a gay Mardi Gras parade will be asked to leave.

gym-lotion

10 a.m. Go home to shower and snack. Delight in the fact that for once, my hair doesn’t make me look homeless.

10:30 a.m. Flip on the big screen TV. Discover reality shows involving dating and entertainment “news” are all cancelled. Forever.

11 a.m. Forget to be productive.

11:30 a.m. Jump in the car and speed out to meet Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell for lunch at a great vegan restaurant.

11:35 a.m. Celebrate the local police department honoring National “Give Only a Warning” Day and avoid a ticket.

Noon Enjoy lunch. Laugh a lot. Forget to offer to pay.

12: 30 p.m. Learn anyone who starts their tweets “That moment that…” or uses more than two hashtags per tweet has been banned from Twitter. Smile.

1 p.m. Serve as a guest judge for a veggie episode of “Chopped” where I pull my best Gordon Ramsey impression and throw things around the set.

2 p.m. Get offered a full-time position with the show.

2:30 p.m. Go on a shopping spree through Trader Joes on the Food Network tab—I had that written into my contract—and hop on a plane for Detroit.

3:30  p.m. Actually answer my phone and hear that my lawsuit against Comcast for emotional distress has been settled for millions.

4 p.m. This announcement becomes public and I learn I’ve become Queen to the millions of people who have suffered similar psychological damage via Comcast.

Request tiara.

5 p.m. Arrive in Detroit for dinner with Buster Olney and Scott VanPelt (ESPN people). Talk a lot of sports. Forget to offer to pay.

6 p.m. Agree to co-write several features with Buster for “Baseball Tonight” before taking my seat at the game.

9 p.m. Celebrate Tiger victory and head home, snacking and sipping a Vodka gimlet on the plane with Eminem while discussing how badass I look in my tiara . (Or how I went the whole day without realizing a dryer sheet was stuck in the leg of my pants. Again, the details are fuzzy.)

10:00 p.m. Arrive home, forget to floss and hit the hay. After all, tomorrow is still “Swiffer Saturday.”

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This begs the question, “If you could have lunch with anyone, who would it be?”

To be honest, I probably couldn’t decide and would end up staying home to eat in my dining room while watching a bird gang bang under my bird feeder, but whatever. Play along.