Boris the Filthasaurus*

I accidentally have a cat named Boris.

Boris lives on our doorstep because he's been abandoned by two consecutive owners and has nowhere else to go. He sits all day, decrepit, beside our door in the cat bed that Amber was nice enough to buy for him.

The bed is filthy. Boris is filthy. He has one eye missing and cat fur dreadlocks. Where there's not a clump of knotted, dry hair, there's a bald spot. I think his rear, passenger-side leg broke in 1972. When he sloooooowly gets up from his bed, he leaves a black dirt stain. He is old; he is mangy and he is sad.

The neighbors take turns leaving food out for him, which is so great. The tuna fish and milk broil all day in the sun just outside my door. Nothing says "Welcome" like a curdled cheese milk and tuna jerky offering. You can see the stench wavering above the bowls. I often consider the market potential of bottling the aroma and selling it at a counter at Nordstrom. It would take about 27 squirts to replicate the density, so I would have to package it in big bottles. Millions, people, write it down.

When I walk from the door to my car each morning, the routine is as follows. I gather my computer bag, gym bag, lunch bag, purse and keys onto my shoulders and into my hands and negotiate my way to the threshold. Turning to be sure the door is locked, I teeter so I don't trip over Boris, who is strategically positioned exactly where my foot would land if I took a step, and who refuses to move a muscle to get out of the way even though he's looking at me square in the face, knowing full-well that I could pile-drive my Nine West heel directly into his bulls-eye bald spot. It's a standoff. I almost think he wants me to put him out of his misery. And I consider it every morning.

Losing, I tote my belongings carefully over Pigpen, take two steps and meet up with my entourage of flies who jump off the cat food at my approach and are nice enough to accompany me to -- and sometimes a few blocks down the road inside of -- my car.

Boris is the cat that comes back from the dead in the terrifying Steven King novel, Pet Cemetary. He is the reincarnation of a big-time sinner in a previous life. "Oh, he just wants some love," my saintly roommate always says. She goes out there and pets him and says nice things to him. I do not. He adores her. I look at him and he looks at me and we are in mutual disgust. We envision each other's demise. What did I do in my previous life to deserve the misfortune of having Boris's flea-riddled ass waiting for fame or death on my doorstep?

I dread the day he dies. He is reliable -- a part of my routine. I can expect to shudder at him at least twice per day. But I do feel sorry for him. Sometimes when he isn't in his bed or lounging, comatose, directly in my path, I wonder what secret other family he is off tending to. Does he have other cat friends? A pussy posse? A girlfriend, perhaps? Is he the dejected guy who can't get the hot feline on 89th? Is it because she cannot see his winning personality hiding beneath the onion-like layers of grime and bugs? Is that why he's grumpy -- because we don't groom him so he can go satisfy his yearning for some action? Are we "cock-blockers"? What jerks!

Why does he choose to come back to my doorstep over so many others? I won't break. He's insane. He needs a new plan; it can't go on like this.



*I dedicate this blog entry to my friend, Danielle, who loves cats.

Flexitarian

Urban Word of the Day
www.urbandictionary.com

September 15, 2006: flexitarian

some one who essentially eats just vegetables (as well as fish, eggs &
milk) who's not too uptight about eating meat occasionally as a matter
of convenience; a lenient vegetarian

Rather than offend his hosts, he ate a good-sized portion of the
spaghetti a la carbonara they offered rather than making a meal out of
salad, bread & dessert. Why go hungry? I'm a flexitarian.



One morning about two years ago, I woke up at my friend's house to find that I could barely see at all. I also quickly found that I could see something I had never seen before -- the tops of my cheeks. It was difficult to open my eyes and when I went to rub them, I could barely get my fist to my lids because my face was so puffed up. What the hell?

I jumped up and ran to the mirror and what I had hoped was my groggy imagination or the end of a nightmare was the sure-as-shit truth. I had been beaten by the ugly stick! The eyes, though sunken, were mine. The hair, though disheveled, was mine. But the rest... My face was red and deformed. I had hives on my forehead and all the way around the back of my neck. That's not me! Something was horribly wrong and I was 45 miles from home on a Sunday.

How did this happen? I went to bed my normal self and mutated all night into a monster! Did I offend God? Hmm. Well, I'm no saint, but karma isn't cruel! What did I eat that was different? Shrimp? That avacado dip last night? It's not Corona...nooooo! Limes? Tortilla chips? Could it have been my lunch? What's the timeline for turning into an ogre face? I had no answer. I called in ugly to work the next day.

The allergist couldn't figure it out. When they did the scratch test, every single square on my back erupted. She said she'd only seen that happen once before. Maybe I'm allergic to people scratching me.

The blood test came back negative to every common allergen. I was told to carry Benadryl at all times because my throat may close up the next time and I won't know what caused the reaction.

When a year passed without consequence, I chalked it up to a freak occurance and moved on. Of course, as soon as I forgot about it, it happened again. A true sequel, it was bigger, badder and uncensored. I woke up at another friend's house with hives all over my face and neck. Being ugly shook me; not knowing why terrified me. Why couldn't it happen in the comfort of my own home, so I could keep my huge blazing Medusa head to myself?

You know why? Because it is FEATHERS! I am allergic to down. Rubbing my face and neck all over down pillows in my sleep is what pissed off my skin. Down pillows have no place in my home because they suck. You get all cozy and then the end of a feather pops out and stabs your face. I hated them before and now they turn me into an overnight disaster Oompa Loompa. Talk about adding insult to injury!

I fucking hate birds. They're gross. They squak and have creepy feet their shits fly and splatter. Beady eyes, beaks -- when Napoleon Dynamite asks about "large talons," I want to vomit. Eggs -- worse yet, yolks! Gag. Gag again. And now, it's a medical condition.

Enter avian bird flu -- hands down the most replusive thing on earth. Sick. Birds.

I am pretty much a vegetarian now. Anything poultry is paltry. Beef doesn't bother me as much, but I'm sticking to seafood, tofu and veggies whenever possible. Ba gawk!

9/11

I am watching National Geographic today -- Inside 9/11.

It's hard to believe it's been five years. It seems like a lifetime ago and yesterday.

Did that really happen? I remember seeing it all unfold on the news, each new detail worse than the last. I remember crying all day and most of that week, shaken. I remember going there one month later and smelling the quiet, putrid breeze. I'll never forget the comraderie and sympathy in everyone's eyes.

I know where my soul is; it's in the exact middle of my body. It is where I feel pain every 20 seconds or so when I watch the footage from that day. It fades for a while when I see a paramedic or a fire fighter or a civilian rescuing or helping someone. My sadness is replaced with pride and respect then.

I am watching the footage from that day, like everyone else, because it's the five year anniversary. I am so drawn to the story. I don't need to explain it.

All over again, today I am so sad and so proud and so sad and so proud. Every 20 seconds or so.

Go Dog, Go!

I am always haulin' my ass all over the place.

That's why I have a bangin sound system in my car and an ipod with almost 3,000 songs. The pod is my constant companion when I travel; it's my interim boyfriend. We've already logged several thousand miles together during our short, six month courtship.

I don't know why I can't sit still. I must have an extreme case of the FOMS -- Fear of Missing Something. Even as I write this, I am wondering what kind of fabulous time I could be having if I just went outside of my apartment.

Three weekends ago, it was an improptu trip to Vegas. That Sunday I drove from Vegas to San Diego to LA in one day. That's 452 miles. (Can't miss my nephew's fourth birthday party!)

I usually drive to San Diego every other weekend to visit my brother and his family and my best friend. Theirs are my homes away from home.

Last weekend, I flew to my other home, Cape Cod, to surprise my friend for her bachelorette party. (See Sexyback blurb below).

During the week I play kick ball (Go Cougars!), flag football (Go Blue Biscuits!) and field hockey (Go Shammies!).

And, a girl's gotta get to the gym once in a while... I do spend f'n $84 per month for that bullshit membership.

Next weekend I go to Santa Barbara for a wedding. The weekend after that, I have a 5 mile road race. After that, I go to San Diego and after that I go to Massachusetts again for two weekends to be in a wedding. I am booked until the middle of October. Then it's just a sleigh ride into Halloween. Dammit!

I do it to myself. I make friends with people who are geographically undesirable. I love them too much to let them go undisturbed by my presence. So, with interim boyfriend in tote, I go to them.

But, this weekend... nothing. This weekend, I press "pause." I am holding the fuck still. With the car keys and ipod tucked away on the shelf, I will sit in a reclined position on my couch and watch my coveted, yes-I-work-for-a-cable-company-and-have-every-channel Digital Cable until I fester. BET Top 25 Countdown, The Simpsons, South Park, hee hee, Project Runway, Weeds, Nip Tuck, John Stewart, whatever marathon E! puts together, maybe a little Wayne's World -- I'm watching it all.

I know my tv and my ipod are rivals. They love me and are insanely jealous of each other. They cannot seem co-exist; it's exhausting. I feel the tension from the tv when I walk out the door of my apartment. I see the dirty looks the pod gives me when I reach to turn it off as we pull into the garage. But, they'll have to learn to get along because I love them both the same.