The Sangria Incident

I'm writing this post for Husband. He made a special request, and I'm honoring it because this story is worth it.

In June, Husband and I had a whole Sunday together. An entire, uninterrupted Sunday. This is very rare and obviously required celebration. It was a truly gorgeous summer day, and we spent it drinking sangria and playing in the yard with Lox and Brisby. We were having a day-long frisbee battle while downing glasses of sangria. It was terrific. It was Sangria Sunday.

By the time it started getting dark, I started sobering up. but not enough. not nearly enough. We were outside, cleaning up the yard when Lox started hopping around like the adorable little monster dude that he is. I literally do not have control over my body when he's being so damn cute.
 

I mean, really. I started hopping around the yard too. I was actually skipping. In my sangria-filled brain, I was being super graceful. Then in the blink of an eye, the beat of a hummingbird's wings, the edge of my foot landed in a small hole in our yard and the weight of my body fell on my foot, turning my ankle completely under me.  EXACTLY how I broke it back in the day. FML.

Trust me when I say that it was worse than the previous experience on Route 11. It was totally horrific. There was no walking this one off. I can't even think about it. It still makes my ankle bone ache. There were a lot of gross sounds that I could feel in my teeth. It was awful. Searing, stabbing pain...crunchy-feeling bones, unable to bear any weight whatsoever...I was certain something was totally fucked in there. I bawled. I sobbed. It was not my finest moment. Husband urged me to go to the ER as I was losing myself in hysterics, but I refused. I refused to believe that it could be broken. I had a fucking half-marathon to run in a month and a half.

The rest of the night was spent covered in ice and losing myself to pity and misery. [Like I said, not my finest moment].  I slept in the spare bedroom all propped up with pillows, feeling totally hellacious. My darling Loxley slept outside the door all night. Bless him. He's such a dude.

The next day, it hurt even worse so Husband made me go to the ER. Of course, everyone asks you what happened so I had to tell them that I was skipping around the yard like a god damn jackass with my dog. I'm too in love with my dog to be embarrassed, but I'm sure people thought I was nuts. They just don't understand the power of Lox's cuteness. See picture above.

We explained that my ankle is practically bionic, and our concern was that something was broken under or around the metal. There wasn't as much swelling as all the other times that I've sprained my shit and the pain was so sharp that I wanted the doctors to really examine it. Which they didn't. Awesome. The PA said something like "it's not broken. here's the ugliest ankle boot you've ever seen and some crutches." No pain meds, no further instructions. You can imagine my annoyance, I'm sure. Allow me to remind you that I'm what some people would call 'clumsy'...the hospital identifies me as a 'fall risk'.

Clearly, I fall a lot. I turn my ankles practially bi-weekly. It's the nature of the running beast. So I don't take going to the ER lightly and I was a little [okay a lot] miffed at their brusque dismissal. I'm sure there was some sort of 'real' emergency to deal with but fuck you. My ankle isn't normal. Attention should be paid.

So I made a follow up with my PCP. Who is also a douche. I've never liked him, but I hardly go to the doc so if I see him once a year, whatever. Anyway, he did a thorough and extremely painful examination. He determined that I needed "aggressive and thorough rehabilitation". Super. I started rehab that week.

Around this time, Husband was leaving for Ireland [jealousssss]. He made me PROMISE that there wouldn't be any yard shenanigans while he was gone. He said "Remember babe, Sangria Sunday leads to ER Monday." Truer words were never spoken. I promised there would be no yard shenanigans. I could hardly walk so I was all set there. I was too busy going to rehab, anyway. I went once a week with the singular goal of being able to run this god damn half marathon that my sister was flying in from Texas to run with me. I just had to do it. I didn't care what it took or how bad it hurt. I was doing it.

And so I did. And I beat my first half marathon's time by 8 minutes.

Suck on that ankle and sangria.

Queenie the River Cat

Hello. I apologize for the delay in this post. I can spew out a bunch of excuses, but if you're like me, you hate excuses. Useless things, really. I'll own it and say that I've been a little lazy and uninspired. Don't cry for me Argentina, I'm not blubbering at all about being uninspired. The truth is that I've been working on this post for about a month but the words were just NOT happening. [Because I love you so dearly, this was unacceptable. I'm not about to subject you to some crap article about a damn cat]. Anyway, Husband calls it writer's block. I call it a bunch of bullshit. Enough of the pity party/excuse gang bang. It's time to get serious.

I mentioned in the Rabbit Head post that the spontaneously decapitated bunny melon might have been the work of Queenie the River Cat. If you pay attention to asterisks and footnotes, you'll recall that I promised to fully explain Queenie in a later blog. As noted above, I've been remiss in this task. For that, I prostrate myself before you and beg for your forgiveness.

Since moving to Danville, I've seen the same mangy cat around the Grand St entrance to the dike. Based on her appearance alone, I estimate that she has been around since the dawn of time-ish and has survived at least three atomic bombings. After running by her in fear for a few weeks, I learned that her name is Queenie, and she belongs to an elderly woman who lives in the house right next to the dike.

I couldn't believe that sweet old lady would own a cat that came straight from Hell, but she did. She even had an adorable little "cat house" on her porch for Queenie [I'm not exaggerating]. This did not, by any means, assuage my instinctual fear of Queenie. Something was definitely off with this cat, but I could not put my finger on it.

After observing her for weeks, Husband and I noticed one thing. There were NO other stray animals near the dike. You're probably thinking this isn't a big deal. Clearly, you've never been in a neighborhood that is adjacent to a wooded area AND a water source. Stray animals come out in DROVES, mostly because people just dump their unwanted pets in the woods [sad face]. Using this logic, you'd think that there would be tons of stray cats and other animals, but there aren't. Husband and I spent a good three hours hypothesizing about the lack of other breathing stray mammals. There's only one possible solution: Queenie was murdering everything and keeping war trophies [e.g. ears, teeth, and paws of her opponents] in her cat house.

I'm sure you'd agree that this is the only logical explanation.

One day while Husband and I were walking Loxley, the woman sternly warned us about letting him get "too close". I assumed she was just being unnecessarily over-protective. I say "unnecessarily" because there is no way anyone in their right mind would let their precious animal/children cargo go anywhere near that hellbeast.

Then this sweet little lady said that she wasn't trying to be rude but that she's "not sure about Queenie" because Queenie came to her "from the river".

FROM THE RIVER.

As soon as she said that, my life flashed before my eyes. I completely understood why I couldn't shake the terror and unease every time I was near her. Queenie is not just some lady's outdoor pet. SHE'S A RIVER CAT. I can tell you that without a doubt, river cats are not just 'stray cats'. Trust me, I've observed them in the natural habitat for quite some time. They're meaner, lankier, mangier, and shiftier than a typical stray cat. River cats are the Chuck Norris of the cat community.

Queenie is no exception.  I'd even be so bold as to take it a step further.

"What could be more terrifying than a Chuck Norris Cat?" you say derisively.

 I'll tell you: a Bill "The Butcher" Cutting Cat. 

Seem like an outrageous claim?  You could only be so lucky. As you'll remember from Gangs of New York, it was all about politics, smelly/dirty people, and Cameron Diaz looking a mess with her crazy-ass hair and terrible accent [she sucks a fat one].

We can [and should] all agree that Daniel-Day Lewis is the MAN. Let's be honest, we held our breath every time he was on screen. The anticipation of his insanity was so terrifying, so good. This is what my nightmares are made of:

I want you to pretend that Bill The Butcher is real and still functional today. Scared out of your mind? You should be.  Hide yo kids. Hide yo wives because it's Queenie The Butcher Cat Cutting, ladies and gentleman.

Proof that she is, in fact, Bill the Butcher:

1. She comes and goes as she pleases, ruling over Danville's Five Points [Grand-Iron-Nassau-Railroad and the dike] with an iron paw and a cold, cold serial killer-type gaze. 
2. You never know what she's going to do: take a body part trophy or show you mercy? It's a gamble. 
3. She stalks the neighborhood looking for other animals to run out of town. Hence the lack of other stray animals in the general vicinity of Danville's Five Points. 
4. She moves with the cool confidence only someone like Bill the Butcher can master. 
5. Most importantly, she has a crazy eyes JUST LIKE BILL.

Still seem like an outrageous claim? I didn't think so. Now you know why my life flashed before my eyes, and I saw it ending in a blur of fur and crazy eyes.

You should all know that I haven't seen Queenie since I started this post. I'm concerned that she's been hiding in the walls of my house, waiting for the perfect opportunity to exact her revenge. In a precautionary measure, I've gotten my affairs in order.





...this is an exaggeration. I've just always wanted to say that. Sounds so important and business-y.

Happy birthday D.B. Smith!

There comes a time in everyone's life when they meet some really special. I'm not talking about just any old lovey-dovey special someone. I'm talking about the one person who tells you to get it together when you're actin a fool, shares your obsession with lattes and desserts, doesn't judge you when you wear white after Labor Day [b/c you KNOW I look good], believes in spontaneous dance parties, can apply war paint while driving a tank, and also understands your love for all things sequined.

I am talking about the one and only D.B. Smith.

Happy birthday Daniel AppleMonkeyVonBurgersonCrustyBunnyOhNoYouDidnt Smith.

I love you. Have a great day.

P.S. I ordered this for you, but they're running a credit check first. Can't imagine why?

Now bring me a 56oz latte and 23.785 chocolate chip cookies, betch!


Miss me?

What a Good Trend Will Get You

I've been seeing these funny little picture things on Facebook. If there's anything I love, it's a good trend and so I've created one for Look Ma, I Blog! 

Not only is it socially relevant, it's also completely factual.

Listen, It's Wednesday

Good day.

It's Wednesday...for those of you that would say "Happy Hump Day", I'd like you to stop. Immediately. It's not cute or even remotely close to clever. You can thank me later for saving you from yourself and your Hump Day shame spiral.

Two things happened this week that are monumentally important for me to talk about:

1. Husband's new tattoo [and subsequently my seething jealousy].
2. Drama-ridden 40-somethings.

There are very few things in life for which I am crippled by jealousy. They are as follows:

-people who own mansions in Malibu
-Husband's adorable Irish nose [if you've seen my honker, you understand]
-new ink

Husband's new tattoo is awesome. Next time you see him, you should ask him about it. I'm hoping to get one soon to assuage my tattoo envy. I have it all drawn out and ready to go. I can hardly sit still because I want it SO BAD. I believe that "tattoo addiction" is real and like any addiction, people are affected at different levels. I'm only truly affected when I see new ink on a friend or something really cool on a perfect stranger. I stare them down, stewing in my own jealousy, picturing that stranger's ink on my body. It should be mine, I tell you, MINE.

Other people get tattoos whenever they feel the urge. I applaud them because it's a bold move to "just get a tattoo". I'm too calculating and Type-A to do that. Also, I live in fear of disappointing Bahb and Big L. I'd never want to get a tattoo that would induce the "parent face" that sends you careening into a deep, dark spiral of self-loathing and despair. [How do parents DO THAT? It's an amazing skill]. Luckily, Bahb and Big L do not fall under the category of "tattoos = satanist drug-users and heathens" so I can easily avoid the parent face. I like to plan my tattoos, work with a design, and think about it for awhile.  I spend time with art because I believe that art deserves it. It's called due diligence, people, learn it and love it.

Anyhhhhway, if you're not a fan of tattoos, you probably have one foot out the window of your office building. Come back. Don't make me sing Third Eye Blind to you. No one wants to hear that. [Singing it in your head? I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not].

The second topic for the week: drama-ridden 40-somethings. I find this type of person to be both pathetic and incredibly annoying. I can't understand anyone who brings drama, and only drama, to the table. If you're like me, you have the following questions: Why don't they have anything else to talk about? Why do they insist on playing the victim card? What do they DO all day?!  I've done some thinking about this and all I can conclude is that 40-somethings that behave this way are one of two things:

1. woefully inept at life
2. so far up their own ass, they have no idea that they are now in their 40s and need to grow up.

 It's completely unnecessary to behave like a child. SHUT YOUR LIPS. You sound like an asshole.

You might be thinking "but Shawnsie, haven't you said before that assholes are totally unacceptable?" 

Yes. I have said that.

"So why are you picking on 40-somethings? Wouldn't anyone who brings unnecessary drama fall under the asshole category, and therefore, be totally unacceptable?"

You are so correct and even more importantly, astute. [I think I love you].

"Then explain yourself or you'll just look like you're hating on people in their 40s."

I suppose you're right...AGAIN. You really are just the cutest. I'm not intentionally singling out people in their 40s...I think anyone of any adult age should ACT ACCORDINGLY.  The reason I've picked "40-somethings" is because it's unacceptable that someone who has lived and learned through their 20s and 30s still behaves like a whiny high schooler. Baffles me, really.

I'm sure you've guessed by now that there is a particular 40-something I'm thinking about while I write this. You're correct [again] but I don't care to name specifics...mostly because I've never interacted with this person [thank you baby Jesus], but Husband has and so her irritating dialogue is dinner conversation. Then we have dance parties while I stare at Husband's new tattoo, sweating with envy.

I'm sure every single one of you knows someone who is of adulthood but acts like a child. I'm not sure I'll ever understand these "adults" and for some reason, the older I get...the more there are. Who let that happen? Bottom line is that the balance of the universe has to be maintained. We should round them all up and stick them in a rehabilitation camp. Obviously, it would have to be operated by robots because not a single, mature human could stand that many in one place. I did us all a solid and found some robots to use:

I like him. He's shifty.