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.

That just fiddles my stick.

I have issues. Some of them are bordering on full-fledged OCD, I'm certain. Others are just plain annoying or weird. Ask my mother. She'll tell you. Ask my friends. They'll complain about it. However, most of these issues I am about to discuss have never seen the light of day prior to this post. Sketchy.


So, I apologize if your glorious image of me in all my godly goodness is very dear to you (as it should be). Because I'm probably about to shatter it. A lot. And smear some poop on it. 

Say bye bye now.

So, without further ado, I give you: 

MY ISSUES: VOLUME ONE.

1.

I hate it when I see an unattended, open drawer. HATE. I drives me insane. It feels like there are tiny squid and octopi sucking on my brain with their little suckers, and they won't stop poking and prodding my mind with their nasty tentacles until SOMEONE CLOSES THAT DRAWER. Usually I take it upon myself to complete this task.

It happens.

2.

I love shiny objects. Be it a faulty necklace that slipped off some neck or a wrapper from a granola bar, I must stop to stare at it for a moment. If it's the former, I take it. Finders keepers. The wrappers I stare at for longer, hoping it will mystically turn into something shiny but of more value. I stop and stare at it even though I am most definitely blocking up staircase traffic between classes.

How could I refuse THAT beauty?

3.

I really like milk. No one understands this but my father. I don't know why. Milk is like juice for your soul. 

4.

I have developed a deep, unconditional hatred for fairies. Maybe my upbringing is party to blame, as my mother loved to fill it with fairy dust and little winged girls clutching berries and flowers.

And there were mermaids. Lots of mermaids. Also, the redhead is a total ho-bag.

5.

Somehow, my hair manages to fall out and cover just about everything I own. I suppose this isn't really an issue, since I'm not really to blame. BUT IT'S GROSS.

6.

Everything has to be perfectly in line in my outfit or I nearly have a breakdown. Shirts not perfectly layered over each other? Jeans loosely hanging over ass and hips because no size fits just right? Hair not perfectly curled around neck and face? SWEET MOTHER OF GOD NOOOOOOOOOOOOO *pounds fists against desk, throws guitar out window*

7.

I am obsessed with locking doors. As soon as I enter the house after school, lock. Lock all other doors. After I let my mom in, lock. After I put the dog outside on his runner to pee, lock. When my mom leaves for a walk down the street, lock. When she runs outside to get something from the car, lock. YOU AIN'T GETTIN' IN THIS HOUSE, YOU SERIAl KILLIN' BITCHES!! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

8.

I hate tartar sauce. With a burning passion. If it was alive, I'd kill it all. For that matter, it very well may be sentient and out to destroy us all with its mysterious green and red specks in a suspicious white mess. You think I'm going to soil my seafood with THAT? What a useless, disgusting, putrescent and worthless condiment.

Hats off to you, sir.

9.

For all my claiming to not be superstitious, I am deathly afraid of the number thirteen. It scares the living piss out of me. 


10.
I walk really fast. I can't help it. I think it's overcompensation for the fact that my stride is incredibly short. My friends always get mad at me. They're like, "Shaannniii why are you walking so faaaaast???? Sloowwwwww down so I can catch my fat assssssss up to yoooouuuuu."


Not really though. My friends don't actually talk like that.

Homebrewed Horror: Tales of the Hills

The woods of rural Massachusetts are full of terror. Gangs of rampant, unfettered turkeys roam where ever their twisted wills take them. Phantom bears and moose stalk the darkness of the forests, striking fear into the hearts of hundreds. Coyotes howl and yip to each other in the hills, after the fruitful discovery of a child's corpse. 


It's madness.


The only thing that stands between these raging beasts of insanity and the complete and utter destruction of the human race is most likely the hilltown law enforcement:

Hilltown police force in its entirety. 

  

Thus, you can understand how terrifying it is to live here when there's nothing between you and the dangers of the wilderness except some guy with an organic chai latte.

One night, long ago, my dear brother and I were chilling out at the house after a long day of partying. We ventured into the kitchen at some point, probably to eat some of my bro's infamous stick-o-butter grilled cheese sandwiches.

Whatever the case, we were just sitting around, minding our own levels of saturated fat, when suddenly we heard a weird noise.

It wasn't just strange, or mysterious, or peculiar. 

It was eerie.

It sounded like the offspring of a coyote and a woodpecker who fell deeply in love and made a baby. 

My brother, ever curious as a clam, threw down his spatula dramatically and decided to investigate.


Because my brother and father tainted my innocent mind at an early age with tales of aliens, monsters, and Bigfoot, it was only natural that my thoughts turn to the supernaturally horrifying abomination that is...


THE CHUPACABRA!!!


Perhaps thou doth not know about the fabled goat-sucker. To clear things up, it does not look like this:

No. What I'm talking about here -- the only thing that could possibly sound like the child of a coyote and a woodpecker -- is more like this:

Yeah, he be suckin' them goats dry.

It was then that I realized my brother's life was in danger. I ran to my trusty home utility closet and retrieved my weapon of choice: the cat-hair-caked broom. Then, I rushed to Bro's aid.

I found him in the gravel driveway, flailing a flashlight beam back and forth through the moist summer darkness, rake in hand.  

The trees loomed on all sides menacingly.

Me: What is it?

Bro: Shhh! 

Just then, a shriek sounded off in the forest. A mere moment later, SOMETHING SCUTTLED across our flashlight's pool of light. SCUTTLED. FAST.

Me: IT'S THE CHUPACABRA!!!

Bro: Ahhhhh! 

And with that, he charged into the darkness after the beast, brandishing his rake like a mace of death.

Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

That was it. My brother was going to die and I knew it. But what could I do? I mean, this is Chupacabra we're talking about here. I just stood there, clutching onto my hairy broom for dear life. In my small, nine year-old mind, this was Armageddon. This was the end. Of everything.

Moments passed, punctuated by rustling of bushes and trees. 

Then my brother returned.

Me: What was it?

Bro: I don't know. Must've been a coyote.

Haha. Ha. Of course. A coyote. That's what it was. Yep. Makes sense.

We went back inside to devour some much-deserved sticks of butter with a side of bread and cheese. I felt so giddy and reassured. Of course there was no such thing as the Chupacabra. It was just a stupid story made up by someone who wanted attention like me.

...But I swear... As I was ascending the steps of my front porch, I felt a tiny little nagging feeling inside that all kids feel when they're unsure. For some reason, just my brother's word wasn't good enough. I needed to know, for sure, that there wasn't some hideous beast lurking out in the night. 

So I looked over my shoulder for a just a second. Just one last glance, to affirm the fact that a gruesome monster wasn't dribbling on my neck, waiting to eat my brains... 

I swear to this day... I saw something, but it wasn't a coyote.

Frogs

Back in the old days, before I was introduced to my brother's old Gameboy Color and iPods, I was a good, organic child. I didn't need no stinkin' televisions to have myself a ball. These were simpler times. No flashy electronics were necessary to keep me occupied for hours on end while my poor brother babysat me.

It was a good life. Down the road, there was a large pond. In the summer, everyone went there to swim, kayak, jump off the cliffs, and eat fattening foods.


...At least, that's what the sissies did. WE, however, the Shotgun-Wielding Chartiers, if you will, did something of MUCH more significance. WE didn't even take time to look over those sad saps sunbathing on the imported-sand beach.


WE had fire running through our veins. 


WE hunted for danger.


My father, my brother, and I would trek over to the pond with our best game faces on. 20-gallon plastic buckets in hand, we would stride purposefully down the street and up the dirt path to the waterline, and stand there for a moment, mesmerizing all with our awesomeness. 


Then, we would move out with our senses alert, and catch us some frogs. 


Now, I know what you're thinking. Eh, wot? Them frogs, they ain't dangerous, pip. Clearly, you have not sat through New England Frog Analysis 101. And lemme tell ya, this ain't no walk in the park. Here in Massachusetts, this is some serious shit, y'all.


1. Preparation


To become a legendary Frog Hunter, one must harness their natural senses and MAKE THEM EPIC.


You have to be able to taste the swampy air to determine the rankest, moistest locations for stakeouts. 


You have to be able to hear the heartbeat of potential prey and single out the frogs from the turtles. 


You must be able to rely on sight to seek out proper positions for surprise attacks on your target.


You have to be able to smell the sweaty stench of fear when the frog realizes it is being stalked.


And this, my friends, is the most important of all the five senses: You must be sharply in tune with the textures of nature, because when that sucker dives into the leaf-and-poop-muck at the bottom of the pond, you better be able to tell what's frog and what's not while you're chasing your prey down.


Without the correct amount of training and practice in the heightening of the five senses, missions have the potential to be extremely humiliating and disgraceful.


2. Proper Frog-Gathering Equipment (Just remember: ABCD)


A: A stomach of steel. The swamps of 'Chusetts ain't for the faint of heart.


B: Bucket (read: THE GEAR YOU LIFE DEPENDS ON). What happens when you've successfully extracted a vicious opponent from the water and you don't have anywhere to put it? Well... just don't get caught in that situation. It's not pretty, that's for sure.


C: Clothes. Don't where your wedding dress or anything.


D: Dexterity of the gods. Frogs are speedy, slimy bastards.


3. Classification of Frogs

The Spring Peeper

As you can see from the masterful image above, this is an amphibian that moves in fast-forward. Quite frankly, I never wasted my time with these. They're wicked fast and ridiculously hard to pin down, they squeak obnoxiously, and they aren't exactly impressive specimens to show off to onlookers.
Difficulty: Intermediate - Expert

The Average Frog

Most of 'em are like this guy. Not much going on in the ol' noggin, if you catch my drift. Whether you be a seasoned Frog Hunter, or a cautious beginner, these frogs offer enough excitement and variety to keep everyone happily busy.
Difficulty: Novice - Expert

The Bullfrog

If you've honed your skills to a razor-sharpness and you're feelin' saucy, then it may be time to move up to the next level. The distinctive call of the bullfrog is clear and easy to pick out from the rest of the riffraff of the swamp. The capturing of these beasts requires nerves of steel and sheer willpower. Yes, they will fight back. But you can do this. Even if it takes an entire afternoon of observing and a swim through the muck.
Difficulty: Expert

Jeter the Devil

This is where shit gets serious. This is the frog that eats other frogs. This is the frog that eats live birds. Yes, he is sitting in a pool of blood. 
Difficulty: No.

The Birds and the Bees

It was the spring of my fifth grade year when my mother decided that the best way to teach her daughter about the birds and the bees was to let me watch our cats Ritzy and Bones try to get our cat Maya pregnant. 

Have you ever stopped to think about how exciting it is to watch a female cat in heat?  Same here!  Isn’t it mesmerizing, how they stick their asses in the air and growl amorously?  Despite the fact that was wildly romantic to witness cats straddling each other while screeching and growling, I had to question my mother’s resolve.  Was this what love was like?  If it was, there was no way I was giving her grandchildren. 

In the end, it was our strapping young stud, Bones, who got the job done.  Or at least that’s my decisive conclusion.  Bones was gray.  The kittens came out gray.  That’s evidence enough for me.

Ritzy was our overweight orange tabby and brother to Bones, and a fine gentleman at that. One of those lazy types, that pick up all the Lyme disease-ridden deer ticks as they roll around, carefree, in the piles of leaves in the woods.  And he smelled too.  But that’s beside the point.  All in all, Ritzy was a good cat, if a little too uncoordinated to, let’s say, “get it in.”

The pregnancy of Maya “Bengal” Chartier was rather uneventful.  I wasn’t sure what was so great about a needy, fat female cat waddling around the house.  She’s still like that, only minus the tiny feline fetuses.  Anyway, near the end of May that year, Maya started following us around all day, meowing constantly, “IMMA CARRYIN BABIES BITCH FEED ME LOVE ME PET MY HEAD OR IMMA GONNA BREAK MY WATER ON YOUR FAVORITE CHAIR.”      

She kept true to her word and went into labor all over my nice reading spot.  How was I to know that even happened with cats?  Do they menstruate?  I don’t think they make tampons for cats.  So why does their water break when they go into labor?

Whatever the case, my mom and I moved our clingy, convulsing cat into a cozy little cardboard box in the closet.  Did I really just use that frightening amount of alliteration in one sentence?  I think I just shuddered in horror more than a cat going through labor contractions.  We watched Maya circle around on the towel, soiling it with her feline pregnancy juices. 

It was magical.

The first kitten out of Maya’s mystical portal of life was punctuated by a loud crack of thunder.  I’m not joshing you here.  The heavens parted and greeted the kitten’s arrival on Earth with a mighty bolt of Zeus’s lightning.  Ask my mom.  It happened.

As mystifying and marvelous as our makeshift delivery room was, I soon tired of the tiny, slimy, wet blobs of cat rolling around on the towel.  My mother and I figured that if a cat in the wild could handle giving birth alone, so could Maya.  So we went to bed.

The next day we had five new adorable kittens.  After whining to my mom endlessly, we kept one.  His full name is “Chocolate Thunder Mousse Chartier.”  My mother and I tirelessly raised the rest of the kittens too, until my mother was satisfied that I had learned enough from the experience.  And so the kittens were sent their separate ways, into the unknown.

Soon after, Bones ran away.  But that’s just fathers for you.  

The Sentinel Lady

It's a dark, stormy night. The wind howls. The trees tremble. The thunder rumbles and shakes the Earth to its core. The darkness closes in, all around, devouring any speck of light left in this desolate place.


And she's there. You can see her. In this mass of horror and woe, that one pair of beady eyes is all you can make out in the grim darkness. Though the foreboding and pernicious night, perched on her reading chair, purring evil angora cat in lap, tea steaming suspiciously on the table, she waits....


And she watches. 


I was twelve years old. Thirteen, maybe. My family lived in a peaceful house in the middle of the woods. In the backyard, there was a path into the forest. You could walk through the gently rustling trees and see all the pretty squirrels. You could close your eyes and listen to a symphony of birds chirping. A chipmunk would skitter by. The mountain laurel would swish quietly in the breeze. A pretty doe and her new little fawn would stroll by, nibbling shoots and leaves. 


All was calm and all was beautiful...


Then she came. 


Like a gigantic, vile cloud of smog and poodle hairs, she descended on our peaceful existence and began to construct her evil lair about 100 feet away from our dear little homestead.  My mother and I could only sit and watch with horror as our benevolent backyard scene was turned into a horrifying nightmare.


At the end of the summer the shack was done. 


It was shaped like a mushroom. It sat right smack in the middle of my old fantastical fairyland of forest. No more twittering birds or swishing mountain laurels. No more magic. 


And it had big picture windows that faced our house. *Shudders*


Sometimes, as I walk down the stairs in the dim light of the pre-dawn, I look over across the way before I can stop myself. And there she will be, head bent over a steaming mug of tea and something suspicious on the table.


Sometimes, she's not even there. But I can feel her lurking. I know she's somewhere deep within the bowels of her lair, cackling and brewing yellow-spotted salamanders and feline tumors in a boiling cauldron of chicken broth and used tampons whilst picking at her hairy moles.

At least that's the impression that I get. And I can feel this one in my bones.


Frequently, when I chance a glance at her window to make sure she's not spying on me through a scope of a sniper rifle, I lock eyes with her evil white cat sitting on the sill. The heinous thing just stares at me with malevolent intent burning deep within its dark, soulless eyes.


Then there's the hellhound that lives outside the house. When the Sentinel doesn't have her young, attractive male slaves running around the exterior of the house raking up her leaves and doing her cougarish bidding, that demon dog is out on the watch. It barks at me when I walk down the street to get to the bus stop. I know it would love to eat my pretty little face right off if only it wasn't tied to a tree with a heavy steel chain.


With the known dangers of living in such close quarters with a witch, there also comes the unknown. Does my neck hurt because she was whacking my voodoo doll with a soup ladle last night? Did my cat really get eaten by a coyote or was he barbecued alive in her basement? Can she see me picking my nose in my underwear if I sit on the couch right here? 


There's a distinct possibility that she picks through our trash. Or maybe it's just raccoons.