Do You Smell Bacon?

I may have hit a new low.

I had a spectacular case of the flu a few weeks ago, which sidelined me for about ten days, then I was busy doing makeup on a couple of film shoots (no big deal.  If you want to see a bit of what I did, take a look at my brand new business page on FB!), and then promptly after that I was hit with a crushing depression that has had me crying non-stop for about five days (except, oddly, when I went to see Les Miserables.  During that movie I was all "meh.").  My goal this week has simply been to get out of bed and go to work.

She'll probably be okay.

Of course, in my sickness/busyness/depressed-ness, I have let a lot of household chores go.  My dishes are piling up, something in my refrigerator smells REALLY bad, and there are dirty clothes all over my floor.  Since my only goal is to get to work each day this week, I have left the dishes disgustingly strewn about my apartment, and have yet to identify the stinky thing in my fridge.  They frown upon showing up to work with no pants on, so I have not been able to completely ignore the clothing issue.  I have managed to find clean stuff in the depths of my closet leading up to this morning, but today I found myself without a desirable pair of pants.  I was NOT going to wear dress pants, and I have worn all of my jeans at least twice at this point.  So I did what any sad, single, cat-owning person would do.  I dug into my laundry basket to resurrect a should-have-been-washed-some-time-ago pair of pants.  The pants I wore on one of the film shoots.  The pants I wore while standing in a very small kitchen while a large batch of bacon was being cooked.  

I looked for any visible spots or stains- none.  I thought "if these don't smell too bacon-y I will wear them for work." And then I did it.  I smelled them for bacon. Not only did I smell them for bacon, I was mildly sad when they DIDN'T smell like bacon.  I WAS SAD THAT MY DIRTY PANTS DIDN'T SMELL LIKE BACON.  And then, because they didn't smell like bacon, I didn't even Febreeze them and now I am wearing fucking dirty neither fresh-smelling nor bacon-y pants to work. 

On the bright side, putting this shame into writing may have given me the push I need to at least do some damned laundry this weekend (and I will be forced to find the rotting item in my fridge because that shit is RANK).  

Keeping your shit together?  That's not how you do it.

It's Clearly God's Fault

Have you ever wondered how and why things happen the way they do?  Like, is the universe in charge of everything that happens?  Does fate predetermine whether you are going to avoid being disfigured in a freak napalming incident?  Does God sit up there in Heaven playing with us like we are Barbie and Ken dolls and some of us get mansions and freakishly small waists while others of us get plastic hair and ambiguous sexy parts?  Or, like Forrest Gump says, are we all "floating around accidental-like on a breeze?"


For example, I really think that fate or the universe or God was at work the day I got Phoenix.  So many things had to go just right for me to get him that I have to believe that it was kind of "meant to be."  And yes, for those who are wondering, I am now a crazy cat lady.  And yes, I have a blog about it.  And yes, I neglect that blog as much as I neglect this one.


But then, just as I am starting to think that there is a rhyme or a reason to this crazy game of poker, I realize that I was totally born in the wrong century, or if nothing else, on the wrong continent and fate must have made a huge error somewhere along the way.  OBVIOUSLY I was meant to live in the 1600's when Peter Paul Rubens thought fat chicks were hot and painted them all over the place.  Hello?  Rubenesque? That's what I am!  And that's where that word comes from! CLEARLY I was meant to live in a time and/or place when being overweight is seen as a sign of wealth because you can actually afford food.  UNDOUBTEDLY, if I for some reason needed to be born in the 1980's, I should have been born in Mauritania where they have "fattening farms" to make women larger.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, am I the sexiest bitch of them all?

But then I realized that, if "mistakes" could be made by who or whatever is in charge, or that nothing is in charge- if the universe wasn't involved in making things happen the way they are supposed to, or that God doesn't pre-determine how our lives are going to go, then I must be responsible for things that happen in my life (including having little to no willpower and thus finding it necessary to buy "big lady" pants).  I do not like that I idea one bit.  So now I am back to thinking that someone else is in charge and I am just a piece in God's giant Barbie game that has a bazillion pieces that He's in charge of and I'm supposed to be Sad Unmarried Barbie or Crazy Cat Barbie or Hides Bitterness in Humor Barbie.  Somehow, that suits me much better.

New Year's resolution for 2012: Take no responsibility and blame everything on a higher power.  (Dudes, and some point I have to create a resolution I can actually stick to- why not let it be this one?)

I wonder if they still sell this?

Phoenix Harry Singywhiskers, the Cat Who Lived

I got a new cat this week. I was working hard in my cubicle (i.e. browsing Facebook) when I noticed a posting from the Animal Humane Society about this 6-month-old kitten named Phoenix. He had been brought in to the shelter after having been burned and found in a dumpster. His story was so heartbreaking, I knew I had to do something to help him. I immediately ran to my supervisor's desk to tell him that I had to leave to adopt a cat. He stared at me blankly for a few seconds (As he should- it's not a request a supervisor hears every day.  Though coming from me he should be prepared for utter craziness to come out of my mouth at any time.  At first he thought I was telling him that HE needed to go to the Humane Society to get a pet [which is something I would probably do]) before saying "Okay, go ahead." I had taken the bus in to work that day and had no way to get to the shelter when my friend offered me her car (how awesome is that?!). I drove as fast as I could because I knew that he wouldn't stay at the shelter long. Police and speed limits be damned- they would just have to follow me to the shelter and deal with me later- Phoenix was MINE.  Luckily, he was still there when I got to the humane society and I was able to lay eyes on my new love. I saw that his whiskers were burned off, and as if there was any doubt, I knew that I had to adopt him.

When I got home from work yesterday all I wanted to do was cuddle with Phoenix. I felt so badly that I had left him alone on his first day home. Even though I had just started The Biggest Loser at my work again (and this time I didn't start it with a drunken freak out) I didn't want to work out at all, I just wanted to lounge with my new pet.  Then, as I was petting him, my hands ran across the fur on his back that was singed from the fire, and I got really, really angry. I couldn't believe that someone would do something so heinous to a defenseless animal. I wanted to punch the person who did it in the face. It's odd how rage is such a great motivator for exercise. I figured that if I ever run into that person, I had better be in shape so I can kick his ass. No one messes with something I love and doesn't hear from me. 

I punched, kicked, and jumped my way in to exhaustion. The bad feelings are gone, and now all I have is love. The person who hurt Phoenix doesn't get to win by making me hateful. No way. Phoenix won by surviving, and I am going to win by making sure that he is never hurt again. The monster who set fire to my cat will burn for what he did, and I don't have to spend one more second thinking about him.  

Another benefit of having Phoenix around is that I would rather play with him than make dinner.  Eating cereal every night instead of burying my face in a huge bowl of pasta has really been beneficial to my diet!   
In conclusion, there are two morals to this story: 1) The Animal Humane Society does great work.  If you are looking for a pet, I encourage you to consider adopting. 2) Cats are good for weight loss.

Stay tuned for tales from a first-time cat owner!  The next installment: It hurts when a cat walks on your face while you are sleeping.

Right This Way to Start Your Afterlife Experience

A friend and I were talking about religion the other day (deep, I know).  I consider myself a Christian, but really I have just made up my own religion that lets me do what I want and me and The Man Upstairs will sort it out later.  I don’t kick puppies and I do give spare change to people playing music on the street- I feel that has to count for something. I’m pretty sure He knows how crappy things are down here, and if we can get through it without pulling a Columbine, He will welcome us and say “Good job, kiddo.”

 "Thanks for not shooting anybody. And, can you please get your hand off my ass?"

Anyway, one of the things that The Church of Nic believes is that once we die and get to Heaven, we get the answers to all of life’s questions: Why are we here?  What really happened on the grassy knoll? Was Eve really weak for eating that apple, or was she framed? Do Lady Gaga’s feet hurt from all of those weird shoes? Why is my butt so big when my sister’s is so small? Is there life on other planets? Why is Snooki famous?

I picture all of us newly-deads sitting on the ground (or cloud, or whatever) cross-legged listening to Camp Director Jesus giving us the orientation.  We get the answers to all of life’s mysteries, get our bunk assignments, choose what our heavenly selves get to look like, and sign up for recreational activities.  Camp Director Jesus is wearing cargo shorts, a khaki shirt with badges, and of course, Birkenstocks.  He is accommodating to the point where you are nervous about how much he seems to like his job (well, he probably should, I guess.  His dad is the owner of the camp), and has a permanent tan line from wearing socks with his sandals.  His brother, Craig Christ, would be a Camp Counselor, and would be responsible for getting the more questionable Camp Heaven inductees drunk behind the pearly gates.

Also, pretty much everyone gets in to Camp Heaven. My personal opinion is that people are not often born bad.  We are broken by the shittyness of life.  Anyone who dies with a smidge of good in their heart gets in.  There may be some people that are truly bad will be denied access, but that’s for the Camp Director and the owner to figure out. Some of the very best people I know wouldn’t make it in on the John 3:16 ruling. They believe in the earth and energy and universal power.  They believe in love and tolerance and acceptance. They are also very nice to me and have made me a better person (I know, can you even imagine what I must have been like before?!), and if a person makes the world a better place just by being in it, they get a first class ticket into Camp Heaven. And really, if we only let in the truly righteous people, Heaven would be bo-ring.  I expect that my Heaven will be equipped with strobe lights, house music, and the really good drugs. I will probably hang out with Counselor Craig quite a bit.

I'm in no hurry to get to Camp Heaven, but I think it's going to be pretty fucking fun once I get there.  

p.s. I searched Google images for "Camp Heaven," just to see what I would find.  As it turns out, I found animae porn.  True story.

See Nic Walk. Walk, Nic, Walk.

This year I am participating in the Walk for Animals put on by the Humane Society.

The walk is 5 miles, and donations will help support the 35,000 animals that the Humane Society helps each year.  

If you are reading this and are an animal lover, please make a donation!

Click below for my donation page.

Animal Humane Society Walk for Animals

If you live in the Minneapolis area and would like to participate, click here for the Walk's home page.

Love and puppies, 

Nic

It's a Crappy Day in the Neighborhood

A friend of mine posted something on his Facebook page about his terrible neighbors and how they stole his garbage can.  This statement got me to thinking: 1) about why anyone would ever steal a garbage can (I mean, really?), and 2) about some of the neighbors I have had over the years.

 

My current apartment complex has been the home to some of my ickiest neighbors.  I guess that’s what you get for being poor and having shitty credit.  Most recently, a new tenant moved into the apartment above mine.  I have never actually seen this person (or people), but I believe the tenant may in fact be a herd of baby elephants.  Their floor (my ceiling) is creaky, and I swear to Baby Jesus this herd never sits down or sleeps.  They also seem to be very concerned with cleanliness, as the other day they decided it was a good idea to vacuum their apartment at 6:45.  In the morning.  On a Sunday.  

Another awesomely bad neighbor at my current apartment decided it was a good idea to literally scream at her two children every time they left their house.  It broke my heart that their obese and angry mom (aren’t fat people supposed to be jolly?  I sure as hell am) would yell at them for playing in the yard instead of marching to the car like the von Trapp kids before the flibbertigibbet Maria came along to lighten the Captain the fuck up.  The good news is that my tax dollars will go toward supporting those kids in Juvie when they inevitably “go bad.”

My college neighbor gets the credit for making me realize that I am an “old soul” (read: that crotchety neighbor who will call the cops on your ass).  I was only 21 at the time, but the neighborhood wasn’t exactly savory, and when that jackass started lighting off firecrackers at 3:00 a.m. (leading me to believe that I was now involved in some sort of gang-related drive by shooting situation, because these kinds of things are totally likely to happen in Sioux Falls, SD), I didn’t hesitate to grab the phone and call the po-po.  I have an 8 o’clock class, motherfucker.  The neighbor on the other side of that house was a morbidly obese shut in who decided that she didn’t like to close the windows when she wanted to masturbate.  The thought of the noises that came from that house makes my lady parts close up like a prude’s legs at a frat party.  Needless to say, I was not sad to move out of that house after I graduated from college.

By far the worst neighbor I have ever had, though, is the guy who lived next door to my family when I was in 6^th grade.  My mom had just married her second husband, which added a step-sister and step-brother to the play group that previously only included my sister and me.  The four of us had grand ideas- we would write, direct, and act in plays on the deck, play with the dogs in our yard, and even decided to try our hand at architecture by building a fort.  We were about 30 minutes into our fort-building adventure when the old man that lived next door came out with a City Ordinance book, and advising us that we couldn’t build any structure within 10 feet of the property line.  I’m not exactly sure why he felt the need to tell us this, as our bed sheet and couch pillow fort was likely not going to survive the day.  This particular neighbor also took issue with our pets.  I was little at the time, so I don’t know if our dogs would often escape into his yard, but one day it seems Ruley McDon’t-Build-a-Fort had enough.  On this fateful day my dog, a miniature dachshund, was walking around our yard and must have gotten perilously close to Ruley’s lawn.  Ruley, in his infinite wisdom, decided that the dog was too close for comfort and decided the best course of action was to shoot my puppy with a BB gun.  Luckily for my pooch, Ruley missed her heart by about an inch.  I wonder what the City Ordinance book says about discharging weapons in a residential area?  The good news is that Ruley is probably dead now.

Being a good neighbor?  That’s not how you do it.

Elevator Assholery: Volume 2

What is it about elevators that make people lose their minds?  The same thing with Target parking lots after it snows, on Sundays, evenings, or anytime really.  People turn into complete a-holes when faced with interacting with other people, it seems.

Take my experience today:  It was 7:30 a.m. and everyone was bundled up against the cold and shuffling in to work for the day.  It was kind of a miserable cold morning, and we were all hoping to get to our desks so that our coffee, breakfast, or in my case whiskey (okay maybe not.  But I can pretend I’m a businessman in the ‘50’s if I want), can warm us up.  It can take a while to get an elevator, as I work in the tallest building in Minneapolis (which obviously makes me very impressive and significant), and they can get pretty crowded in the morning, so it is a blessing if you get a ride to yourself.  I was walking to the elevator bank thinking myself lucky that there wasn’t a mob of people - there was only one lady, clad in the pointiest boots and tightest skirt I had ever seen- waiting.  I was a few paces away, and as the elevator opens, the woman who uncannily resembles Cruella DeVille (including the two toned hair- except that she’s blonde/white on top and black underneath, circa 2003) rushes into the elevator and starts frantically pressing the “door close” button, apparently hoping to thwart me in my devious plan to, you know, ride the elevator.  Unfortunately for her, I am a sassy bitch and am not tolerant of poor elevator etiquette.  I shove my purse in the way of the doors as they are closing and walk into the elevator looking her straight in the eye.  The Shame Stare.  I also hold the door open for the other 5 people who have now arrived, just to make my point (even though I usually am angered by people who do this.  I won’t hit the “door close” button, but please don’t make me wait while you generously hold the door for 15 minutes so everyone and their dog can get on).  Honkey grandma be trippin’ if she thinks she is busier or more important than me.  My victory was sealed when she rode the elevator all the way up to my floor before she realized that she hadn't pushed the button to her own floor.  ::raises fists in the air:: O'Doyle rules!

 I also think it’s super awesome when people jam themselves into the elevator as others are coming off.  As if they would actually cease to live if they didn’t get on the elevator RIGHT NOW.  Never mind waiting until the crowd in the elevator gets off and they have space to actually get on the lift.  NOW.  They must get on NOW.  Fairies will die and babies will cry if they don’t.  Shoving their way onto the elevator NOW may help to cure AIDS and cancer and ugliness all at once. Get out of the motherfucking way because they need to get where they’re going NOW.  Alternately, I also hate the people who mosey into the elevator.  There will be a group of 4 or 5 in the middle of a conversation, and will basically crawl at a snail’s pace onto the elevator.  These are also the ones who are shocked when the door closes on them.

 And finally, I am really peeved by people who take the elevator for one floor.  If you aren’t pregnant and/or wearing stripper heels, take the damn stairs- particularly during “rush” hours like lunch time.  I want to be gettin’ my sandwich and I will bite you if you make the process take longer.  Today may be the day that Creepy Sandwich Artist’s innuendos will finally melt my heart and we’ll live happily ever after, and you may be messing with my destiny with your lazy ass elevator ride.

Having elevator etiquette?  That’s not how you do it.