Summertime.

Hello there!  Here in Massachusetts, it is summertime. Or, as a Bostonian might say, "It's fucking hot, ya tahd."

So anyway, I spent the past couple of months doing various summery activities. This is mostly what happened everyday:

True story. 

Anyway, here's what you missed while I was away:

1. We got a new kitten.  She's so sweet and loving.  She's a little princess of benevolence and affection.  She loves to cuddle and sleep on our laps.  We couldn't have asked for a better, more well-behaved little baby kitty.

...Kidding.  She's bloodthirsty and hates us.

Her name's Rosie, as in "The color of your blood when she slaughters you like a fucking fieldmouse."

My mom is actually very afraid of her.  She often tries to defend herself with a squirt bottle, but to no avail.  My dad suggested that we should try wrapping duct tape around our ankles, so the cat can't scratch them.  I believe that may be over-thinking the situation -- I say we duct tape her to the ceiling.

2. I met my beloved guitar hero, Nils Lofgren, after a concert.  It's nice to know that I can now die happy.

The picture we got is something to that effect.

3. I somehow contracted chickenpox, even though I had it as a little girl.  During this time, I beat Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness for the Gamecube. Time well-spent? Hell yeah.

4. My father got a new apartment, and it's like, ten WHOLE square feet! Yes! Major upgrade from last apartment! AND OUR NEIGHBOR HAS CHICKENS!!

This is a chicken.

5. We got a new couch. It's green.

6. My friend Annie and I tried to light a banana on fire.

Side-note: BANANAS ARE FUCKING FLAME-RETARDANT

Actually, other than fiddling endlessly on my guitar and finding a free sombrero by the side of the road (refer to the first picture), that's pretty much what's been going on.

...I think I need to get out more.

I can't do the sleep good most time.

I do not function well when I receive minimal amounts of sleep. 


My brain doesn't process reality. My body doesn't realize I'm awake. My eyes can't read words or get used to bright lights. My vocal chords and tongue won't do talk good. 


All of this severely damages my already inferior skills at surviving the day. This is bad. Very bad. 


It all begins with the alarm. That awful alarm. That alarm that sounds like it's vomiting a plethora of short-circuiting robots into my ears every morning. It never successfully tunes into any radio station. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's just a huge asshole.

Eventually, spurred on by the need to throw my clock across the room, I manage to extract myself from my sexy, warm blankets and immerse myself in the cold, dark world of morning. Upon exiting my room, the cruel truth of life hits me: I cannot overcome simple obstacles when inebriated by lack of sleep.

I speak the truth. Also, it's vital to keep in mind that it is dark as the inside of an dried cow bladder in my house in the morning. My natural survival instincts, such as the ability to switch on the lights, escape me at this time of day. The stairs are just the beginning. When I manage to reach my kitchen, I am greeting by my own personal Happy Morning Welcome Wagon.

The impossibility of the day begins to dawn on me. After shoving breakfast down my sleeping throat, and doing other stuff that happens in the morning, I proceed to the bus stop. There I am greeted by my neighbor, whom I go to school with. He always has way more energy than me.

After this point, the day becomes a total blur of unfocused classes and social interactions that I usually don't even remember later. I exist merely as a blob of living matter sitting in the midst of a world I'm not really mentally connected to.

The sad truth is, days like these happen often. It's one less day I've enjoyed in my lifetime. The sadness of it strikes me now and then. But usually, I'm too busy collapsing onto my bed at 7:00 and catching up on sleep to consider it for too long.


It's a lifestyle. I'm not saying it's a good one, but... you know. It's mine. So hop off beeyotch.

Mom Knows Best

Hey my peeps. 


So, I'm back by popular (one person's) demand. Yes, I'll admit, I was temporarily distracted by my nighttime job of vigilante crime-fighting in the insidious streets of Massachusetts...

You understand, though. Being the hero can be harsh. 

Anyhoo, I am proud to say that I have a whole new outlook on this blogging business. I have something important to say to y'all, straight from the bottom of my rather large and generous heart. I'm gonna stick to it this time and keep cranking out those useless life experiences for you, all for the small price of nothing. Sound good? Good like gingerbread? 

...at least I think that's what I meant to say. It might just be the Dr. Pepper talking. That smooth, exquisite, luscious, delectably foxy soda.... ahem.  I may have had a sip earlier today. I don't know when my father's going to learn that supplying me with delicious forms of caffeine is not a good idea. 

But man, do I covet that Dr. Pepper. My mom never let me drink soda growing up, so naturally I've learned to cherish every single drop that comes into my possession. In hindsight, there was probably something to this rule. My mom says that in the end, she's always right. 

Also, I handle caffeine rather poorly. 

You see, caffeine poisoning is very serious in some individuals. Some people just can't handle their Pepsi. I know I am susceptible to this affliction. I will not try to deny it. I cannot break free of it, however. I can only show you what it looks like to witness this terrible spectacle, and hope that you don't travel down the same barren road I did.

The first stage. You are aware of the presence of the bottle. It's sitting there, begging to be swigged. The color is beautiful. The seal of the cap so delicately unbroken. Your twitching limbs, flopping surreptitiously in the direction of the sweet elixir, drawing you closer with every second, like iron fillings to a magnet. The fleeting glances. 

Often, I willing put myself in this risky position because of the undeniable splendor of the bottle of Mega Voluptuous Caffeine Suckerpunch or whatever I happen to stumble upon. 

But WAIT! At this point I remember my mother's dire message... 

YOU CANNOT HAVE THAT SODA.

...do I really have it in me to deny that one simple statement, spoken by the most important, all-powerful person in my life?

The uncertainty grows within like a festering disease. That disease slowly transforms into a looming fear. The consequences. The repercussions. Punishment. If I should be caught. What will happen to me? I may never see the softly glowing silhouette of a sweet bottle of Coca-Cola again...

Then my eyes fall on the bottle once more. Can't deny it. There it is. In all its glory. 

IN. ALL. ITS. SUMPTUOUS. GLORY.

Then. It comes down to this. The moment of truth. The final showdown between what I desire most and what I know in my heart to be right. 

This outcome seems to be the most common. The extreme desire for fructose-injected caffeine-water always wins out against my mother's will. What's a girl to do?  


Subsequently, which is one of my favorite words, the caffeine does not take effect. It seems as though it has an opposite effect on me. I usually experience a sort of energy leakage after the consumption of a bottle/can of soda. I'm not sure if my mother ever learned to recognize this caffeine low, but it feels like it must've been pretty obvious after a while.

In any case, the unavoidable caffeine burst-o-power strikes about three to six hours late in my case. And it lasts for a while. Quite a while.

It's probably pretty terrifying. It's too bad I can't see my reaction to one of my own caffeine rampages. Too bad I can't really focus on one thing long enough to see anyone else's reaction, either. 


I've noticed that my feet twitch and bounce a lot, as my caffeine highs are a little more lucid now than they were during my earlier childhood. Also, I tend to not talk quite right. And my attention span shortens to about five seconds. 


All I know is that there's probably a very good reason my mom forbid my caffeine consumption as a child.

Mom knows best.

I don't know why I laughed at that...

I've been feeling this creeping guilt deep in my impressive ab-encrusted gut because I didn't keep true to my personal blogging promise to post at least once a week. How can I ever hope to built a two hundred-foot solid gold statue of myself riding a moose in the middle of Canada if I can't even write a stupid blog post at least once a week??


What a disgrace.


So anyway, my friend Annie told me some wonderful anti-jokes the other day, and I thought I'd share some of my favorites with you, since of course it is Fish Day in France.

***

Q: What's worse than finding a worm in your apple? 
A: The Holocaust.

...

Q: Why did the black man buy 3 boxes of condoms? 
A: Because he practices safe sex and they were on sale.

...

Horse walks into a bar. 
Bartender says, "Hey, buddy, why the long face?" 
Horse says, "My wife is dying of terminal cancer."

...

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
The police, your entire family died in a car accident.

...

Q: What did one lawyer say to the other lawyer?
A: We are both lawyers.

...

Q: How do you get a clown off of a swing?
A: You hit him with an ax.

***

I don't want to overwhelm you with too many tasteless attempts at humor in one post. There's about six too many here.


It was in the very least amusing to see the range of reactions these jokes get. My friends seem to appreciate them, seeing as we start to do that awkward silent laughing if one of these bad boys is delivered correctly in the right situation. 


My mom, on the other hand, just sort of doesn't say anything after I tell one...


But anyway. I digress. Go home. Yoke's on you.

Mornings at Shani's Benevolent Bed and Breakfast

My dog is wonderful. I give him that. Yes, Sir Reginald is a very good puppyboy. He's quite obedient, and barks at intruders.  


However, Reggie really likes to vomit. All over the place. It's disgusting. When I come downstairs in the morning and it's all dark, there's no way I can see that pool of bile resting just beyond the final stair. 


Since bile doesn't really have a mouth, I can't hear it saying "OH HO HO YOU'RE ABOUT TO STEP IN IT BIOTCH OH HO HO."

Clearly, since karma wanted to pay me back for something awful I did, I stepped in it. Yes. Just like the bile foretold.


It's dark, I can't see, there's something disgusting and wet all over my sock, I'm trying not to fling my iPod out the window with my frantically flailing arms, and I may or may not have stepped on my cat in the process. 


Sort of luckily for me, this temporary distress gives me a chance to ignore the fact that the Sentinel Lady is watching me through her giant window, peeking at me in my bathrobe. 


...The hairs on the back of my neck just stood up.


AND! AND! As if that weren't enough, I thought I saw this through my French door standing in my driveway:

...it was really terrifying. I thought maybe my neighbor's insane dog hag gotten loose and fallen into some radioactive waste or something, and now it wanted to devour my soul. Hey. Shit happens. 


Upon a second glance, however, the formidable figure looked more like this:

Yeah. I thought I should share that glorious insight on mornings at the House of Shani. Really. Like, you should have been there. 


Um... I promise to talk about something better next time.

The Bones Gene

Hey! Wanna hear about the time I almost got raped by a horny cat?

There was something different about Bones.

We could just tell.  His brother, Ritzy, acted like any other cat.  He ate his dry Purina cat chow, pooped in the litter box, sat his smelly fat ass down on our laps for petting, and looked attentively at us when we called his name in a high-pitched voice. 

But not Bones.  I think he was a few violins short of an orchestra.  A few rowers short of a sculling team.  He was missing some marbles.  I don’t know.  Maybe it was genetic, but Bones had a quality about him that made one question his ability to navigate his way off of a couch.

I have added a loincloth in the hope that it will help this cat maintain a shred of dignity.

First of all, he seemed to have trouble walking. He would start off determinedly towards a different room, then flop over onto the floor immediately if I poked him with my foot.

Second, ironically, he had no spine. Watching Bones walk around, one would assume he had a normal bone structure. However, upon picking him up, his skeleton would melt instantly.

It made about as much sense as this picture.

Third, he had a distant, wandering look perpetually glazed over his eyes. When I picked him up or called his name for food, something gave me the sense that he wasn't fully invested in his immediate environment.

Finally, he tried to impregnate me.

That sentence grosses me out just looking at it.

If you can remember back into the mists of time, you will recall that I posted something about how my mom unintentionally taught me about sex by letting our cat get pregnant. It was spring, it was warm, and love was in the air. Our trio of cats, Ritzy, Maya, and Bones, were no exception.

For the purpose of receiving kittens for our enjoyment, we had postponed the neutering / spaying of our kittehs. Soon enough, our days were filled with watching our fine young studs awkwardly trying to get it on with Maya.

Once again I have creeped myself out. 

I have provided a visual to clarify this embarrassing display of feline instinct:

Survival of the fittest.

As far as we could tell, neither bachelor really had fatherhood in the cards. Ritzy was too naive and obese, and Bones was just... Bones.


Whatever the case, one of them seemed to have gotten the job done, as Maya did actually give birth to five kittens. Unless, of course, it was Boots, the black cat across the street. I suppose I will never know. My dear Mousse does bear quite a resemblance to Bones, however.


If you've ever seen cats mating, you will know that the male tries to jump on the female, bite her neck, and get some sugar.


...Um...yeah. 


Well, after a day or two of watching the Magnificent Kitty Bros attempt this, I was used to it. I didn't exactly understand it, but it wasn't weirding me out anymore. 


So there I was, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, waiting for my mommy to finish cooking dinner. I was so innocent. Little did I know, Bones was sitting on the floor next to me trying to process his environment. In his shriveled raisin of a brain, this was the most complex thought he could muster:

You see, to Bones, the outside world was reduced to simplest terms:


1. If it moves, it's alive.
2. If it squeaks and moves, it should be eaten.
3. If it's taller than five feet and it moves, it's a human.
4. If it's shorter than five feet and it moves, it's a cat.


So, I was sitting there, a little, short fifth grader minding her own business, when suddenly this massive cat decides that I'm a female cat and leaps onto my back.

Mom: Oh my god! 


She throws down her spoon and rushes to my aid, since this twenty-pound cat just pulled me backwards off my stool and onto the wood floor. 


Bones scrambles off after I almost crush him. 


Mom: ...


Me: ...


Mom: ...


What do you even say after your mentally challenged cat tries to deflower your daughter? What do you say after your mentally challenged cat tries to deflower YOU? I was so confused. What happened?


Mom: ...he was going to bite your neck, too.


Okay, traumatized for life. Thanks, Mom, for letting me experience being assaulted by a horny cat. Those kittens better be damn worth it.


I still feel violated. 

The Jelly Cucumber

Only spoken of in whispers, a certain tale of woe haunts the family with a spirit of squalor. It's hotly debated over whether this event actually occurred, or if it was just a tall tale spun to spice up an otherwise boring day.


My mom swears it never happened, and unfortunately, I was not present to bear witness. So, perhaps I may never know what truly went down on that fateful night...


The night...

of...

...THE JELLY CUCUMBER!

  

So, I have taken what I've heard of the incident and formed my own formal opinion about its legitimacy. 

Since I only have my father's word to go on (and that's not the best source for accuracy), I am forced to present the best understanding of the event I can manage. 

It was just an average evening at the house ("house" is an exaggeration; it was more of a tiny stand-alone apartment with a basement that smelled like poop and mold). 


My father, ever the healthnut (Cheetos is his idea of a mustard green) decided to whip up a deliciously nutritious salad to go with dinner that fine evening.

My father in the midst of intense salad excitement.

He cut up some lush, green lettuce; he diced up some fresh, bright carrots; maybe he even threw a dash of lovely sliced tomatoes. 


His salad was finished. As he beheld it in all of its leafy glory, he took a moment to absorb its sheer beauty. However... It lacked something...


But what?


He checked the refrigerator to see if there was anything to polish up the fine salad and make it shine. Eggs? No. Milk? No. Ham? Probably not. 


He dug around for ages, and finally... 


he beheld...

The heavens opened up to reveal a gloriously delectable cucumber, perched poised and perfect in the vegetable drawer. It was simply begging to be sliced up and thrown into a salad to fill it with the glory of the gods.


My father went to work.

He held the knife suspended over the magnificent cuke, basking in its phallic splendor. Could he really do it? Could he possibly deface this pure specimen of perfection? And at that, toss it into a salad full of unworthy plebeian-veggies?  

He pondered this. It took an immense amount of willpower and strength to battle this decision. But, in the end, the fatherly desire to put dinner on the table won out.


He touched the knife blade to the cucumber's skin, ever so slightly, and this is, as I understand it, what happened:

The skin parted and the gelatinous contents of the satanic cucumber exploded all over the kitchen, as if under extreme pressure. 

You may be wondering how there could possibly be so much crap stuffed into one cucumber. The truth is, I have no idea. Also, I remind you that I was not there when it happened and I do sometimes have a tendency to maybe exaggerate. A little.


Now, my mom insists that it never happened, and I suppose I have no way of truly validating the story as a legit horror tale of my childhood. However, one can dream. And I would prefer to think this one is true.