Tag Archives: irony

A night that wasn’t in the cards

Remember MySpace? I can’t even type that with a straight face. Well, embarrassingly to say, MySpace was the forum used to create my first blog. This blog, sandwiched between creative selfies and Kanye West’s song, Heartless (not really building a case for myself here, am I?), contained one shining and brilliant moment of self-discovery. As brilliant a moment of self-discovery can be at the ripe age of 20, anyway.

In it, I professed my hatred for card games (obviously not classics like Go Fish and Old Maid; I’m not a monster), but especially my extreme loathing of pitch. Not even when I was 80, not even when all my friends – well, those who were left – invited me to play, not even if it was a choice between playing pitch or getting pitched from the game of life would I partake in this ludicrous activity.

My mind was firmly made up.

I hadn’t thought about that blog until recently. You see, I woke up last Sunday with a terrible hangover headache. Everything was a blur – and then – fuzzy recollections of the night before began to enter my brain.

My stomach lurched violently as I began to experience panic mixed with deep regret and shame.

What have I done? I thought, as I sat up straight in bed, rocking back and forth. Shivering, I wrapped my arms tighter around me.

The night had started out innocently enough. Clayton and I were visiting friends out of town, and our plans were to attend the Do the Brew beer sampling event later that afternoon. After sampling countless amounts of ales, blondes and stouts, I’ll admit my standards went down a bit. I wasn’t thinking clearly. A carefree, reckless attitude was certainly present.

After the event, our friends asked if we wanted to go back to their place to, you know, grab some pizza. Have a few more drinks. Just talk.

“Sure,” I naively said. “That sounds great!”

Before I knew what was happening, a pack of cards was placed in front of me on the table, and the suggestion to play pitch hung in the air like a wet blanket on a clothesline.

I shouldn’t. It’s late. I have to work really early tomorrow morning. Is that my phone ringing?

You can only prolong the inevitable so long, and my excuses were falling on deaf ears. Tipsy, deaf ears. The worst ears for declining pitch: the state game of Nebraska.

“I told myself I would never learn…,” I said feebly.

“Come oooon. Just play! It can be our little secret,” they cajoled.

Before I knew what was happening, cards were being dealt in my general direction. Ew. Ick. I tried to brush them away with a shudder, thinking of the people I would disappoint and hurt if I irresponsibly continued this heinous act.

It was all for naught.

I attempted to eject myself from the game with all the effort of someone who tries to politely refuse the last piece of apple pie, even though they secretly, desperately crave it. I couldn’t possibly.

Then,

Oh, no. It’s happening. Just close your eyes.

I played my first hand, letting the cards of failure fall where they may. Then, the thrill of the chase after almost nine years of painstakingly abstaining from the game took over. I felt … liberated.

Sure, I didn’t played my cards right – specifically, because I ended up playing cards, but also because I didn’t yet know all the rules. But the sense of camaraderie I felt, as well as the various card strategies and lingo learned, welcomed me into adulthood. I came out of the whole thing feeling more experienced. More mature. More worldly.

And so, so dirty.

Back to Sunday morning.

You see, my friends had encouraged me to play this game for more than nine years. With love, persistence and plenty of peer pressure, they offered to teach me more times than I can remember. Year after year, I never gave in.

Now I had to tell those very friends the ugly truth that I had learned to play pitch, and that I had learned it without them. I took to Facebook, and was met with the disapproval I expected, but lots of cyber slaps on the back. Following are some of the responses:

1. Yaayyyy for you! 
2. I feel so cheated on.
3. And you don’t regret it either, do you?!
4. Boo!!

I may have lost respect from my best friend and others, but regardless, the training wheels are off. Like it or not, I’m a full grown woman now; well, despite my love of animated movies and staying up past my bedtime.

My friends may be able to forgive me for my shameless behavior in time. Whether I’ll be able to forgive myself is still up in the air, seeing as my careless actions now guarantee myself a spot at the card table whenever the occasion arises.

It’s too soon to tell if pitch is “the one” for me in terms of card games. So far, it’s been a tumultuous love-hate relationship. I guess all I can do is keep testing the waters and keep things casual in case I end up liking another card game more. After all, it’s way too soon to settle down with just one game for the rest of my life.

Spades, anyone?

Marriage is like a deck of cards. In the beginning all you need are two hearts and a diamond. By the end, you wish you had a club and a spade.

Espress-oooh, shit! Oncoming traffic!

It’s all over the news this week – a newly invented portable espresso machine that plugs into your car’s cigarette lighter (Ah, the irony of replacing one bad habit with another). Although it’s not yet being sold in the U.S., it’s (surprise, surprise) making strides in Europe and a travel-sized model is available online for all those outdoor activities in which premium espresso is essential. Camping. Skiing. Whitewater rafting.

"Who's got the espresso machine? Pete? Pete! Espresso me!" (Image: adventuredrop.com)

Finally, a mug full of scalding liquid available instantaneously right when you need it – in the middle of a rigorous mountain biking session! Don’t worry, don’t worry – it comes with two small napkins. As if anyone would be clumsy enough to spill while skydiving. Rookies, all of ya!

To those outdoor enthusiasts who can’t go without the sauce for a weekend or even a few hours: I think you’re missing the point.

It’s called the rugged outdoors. Espresso doesn’t exactly scream “I’m one with wilderness!” The most premium thing about any of the above activities is the social acceptability of peeing wherever and on whatever you choose.

If you read the article, you’ll see it’s really quite simple to set up the machine in your car. Just a few steps and you’ll be driving recklessly on the road during all of them! I mean, in no time!

1. Locate thermos.
2. Wash thermos from last time you used it. (JK. Like you’ll be alive to use it more than once)
3. Pour water into thermos.
4. Get into car.
5. Place pod over thermos.
6. Screw on top of thermos.
7. Hit “on” button.
8. Wait two minutes.
9. Take thermos out of machine.
10. Pour espresso into tiny cup without lid.
11. Replace thermos.
12. All while driving!!

Yeah, I can see how this would be so much quicker than making it yourself at home. God forbid you multitask while you’re getting ready for work, or drive through a Starbucks on your way. It’s not like they’re hard to find or there’s only one in town.

"But dad - I'm not tall enough to see the road!" "Just steer a few moments longer, Timmy. Daddy needs his caffeine fix." (Image: delish.com)

Well. Unless you live in my town. But even then, there’s not a line because – Nebraska!

My favorite part about this whole article is the image delish.com decided to include. It’s not someone in the passenger seat safely pouring espresso for the person, oh say, driving the car. That would just be stupid! Rather, the image shows a man using both hands to pour it himself. Eyes on the prize, am I right? But there’s a catch! He appears to be driving, too!

Impressive.

It could be he’s incredibly gifted at driving with his knees, or he has his five-year-old holding the wheel while he grabs a cup of joe. Maybe he’s at a stop light or better yet, parked somewhere. (My bet is on top of another car he just collided with)

So I’ll buy it. He’s parked. And this is saving time how again?

At least if you’re still alive after pouring the espresso, you can keep one hand on the wheel as the next adventure of trying not to spill the tiny mug begins. Because why on earth would a portable espresso machine come with a cup holder? Cars normally drive so smoothly.

Are you supposed to shot the steaming liquid?

With the inclusion of two spillage napkins, I can only conclude that Handpresso must consider spilling not only inevitable, but somehow acceptable. Man, this espresso is good, and the upside is that it’s going to smell like espresso in my car forever because espresso has spilled into the backseat, onto the floor mats, and it’s even on my suit just in time for the big presentation. Yay, espresso!

A person would reaaaaally have to enjoy espresso. Like, more than your life, which is valued at $199.99, by the way. The portable espresso machine, however?

Priceless.

Sure, there will be some skeptics. “How is this in any way a good idea?” they’ll ask.

“Keeps ‘em awake! Less accidents!” Handpresso advocates will gush, clearly too loaded on caffeine to bother with complete sentences.

According to the article, you’ll never fall asleep while driving again. I believe it! Cuz you’ll be too busy. Being dead.

"Aw, are the waser wights getting in your wyes?" "Yes! Trying to drive here!" "...pussy." (Image: lazercraze.com)

I’ve taken the liberty to get the ball rolling on some other car-friendly, portable essentials I think could really change the course of present day driving (literally):

1. Laser tag
2. Shower
3. A fully stocked bar
4. Shooting range
5. Hot plate

Raccoons vie for world domination, discarded jar of pickles

The human race can add one more threat to a civilization where discrimination, hunger, poverty and war abound: raccoons. An epic battle has been spilling forth from the city of Toronto, a clash where animalistic pleasures and wiles reign supreme, especially when that supreme is a pizza that’s just been tossed carelessly into an unlatched garbage can.

As the National Public Radio article goes, Toronto is home to a huge population of raccoons, thus securing its destiny as the raccoon capital of the world. Way to go, Canada. I didn’t think it was possible for you to disappoint America more.

Anyway, before I digress into a fit of misplaced, Canadian-based rage, the extent of the NPR story is that some dude goes completely postal on a raccoon for jacking his leftover spaghetti and meatballs from his inadequately locked trash can. Probably. Naturally, a war of rights (and hilarity) ensues.

Upon reading the story, I can’t help but think it sounds oddly raccoon-biased and I quote, “The [cruelty toward raccoons] has sparked a heated debate about how to control the animals, and which urban dwellers’ rights come first.”

Which urban dwellers’ rights come first? Seriously?

Ya hit ONE tiny baby raccoon with a shovel and panties get bunched tighter than an all girls’ high school clique.

“Who are the animals now?!” pretentious animal rights groups will shout from behind colorful, slogan-filled signs featuring adorable raccoon drawings.

I can see the lawsuit raccoons will inevitably win against humans now. Discrimination? Check. Hunger? Check. Poverty? Check. War? Check. And now raccoons rule the world and humans are just their pawns to open tight pickle jars and complicated bottle caps.

You’re probably thinking, this is silly, Cassie. Raccoons will never win this fight. Oh, yeah? According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia.com, raccoons are noted for their intelligence, with studies showing that they are able to remember solutions to tasks up to three years later.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend still can’t even remember to take out the trash. Irony at its finest, hmmm?

Plus, these aren’t your typical raccoons. These coons are pure Canadian and they know great health insurance when they see it. I should say ONCE they see it. Lasik surgery to correct their poor, nearsighted vision? Check. Plus, raccoons’ eyes are said to be well-adapted for sensing green light, which already puts them light-years ahead of all those horrible drivers out there unable to distinguish between “go” and “stop.” Or parallel park.

A quote from behavior psychologist Suzanne MacDonald sums up the seriousness (cough, cough) of the issue: “City raccoons are smart, and they’re getting smarter. One of the things were doing is providing them with bigger and bigger challenges, so you’ve probably seen raccoon-proof garbage cans and all these things to try to keep them from figuring things out. But, in fact, they always do, so humans are selecting these traits in raccoons and we’re actually shaping an uber-raccoon that is going to be able to compete in an urban environment.

Compete for what? Our jobs? Our intellect?! Our romantic interests?!?

I mean, let’s be honest, this is one masked warrior who doesn’t need a cape to totally pull of its mysterious, debonair look. If the raccoon is one step from becoming urbanized, metrosexual haircuts and clothing will surely follow suit (heh) for these sly animals, and then there will be no stop to them.

The story states that there are 20 times more urban raccoons in North American than there were 70 years ago. So, in essence, they may have came for the leftovers, but they stayed for the gripping nightlife and culture.

Meanwhile, the city of Toronto turns a blind eye to the debate, instead choosing to focus on more important matters, like forming an all-star raccoon hockey team and training its new force of raccoon Mounties to hold and fire weaponry.

A day in the life of a (pseudo) runner

The occasional person runs after a hat blown from atop their heads on a windy day. An unlucky few run for their lives from axe murderers – or, more likely, after a particularly bad date. Some run for president, some from their fears. And SOME run because, well, they like it. Because it’s “good” for you. God forbid.

My running habits are a concoction of the above statements, with the exception that there is not enough Purell in the world to make me want to shake numerous germ-riddled hands on a constant basis – obviously what being president primarily entails. Obviously. Plus, it’s hard to run in heels so after a bad date, I more or less trot unevenly at a quick, but always panicked gait. At that point, he may as well be an axe murderer – I mean, it’s not like we’re going to have a continued friendship after I find out my former date is on Team Edward.

In the words of stand-up comedian Demitri Martin, “I think that when you get dressed in the morning, sometimes you’re really making a decision about your behavior for the day. Like if you put on flip-flops, you’re saying, ‘Hope I don’t get chased today. Be nice to people in sneakers.’”

As a kid, I ran everywhere because life was so exciting and effervescent that there simply was not enough time in the day to explore all it had to offer. Now there could be a tornado warning with a visible sighting of the natural disaster looming outside my window and I’d probably just shrug nonchalantly and be sure to grab my Cheetos before slowly retreating uselessly* to my bathtub.

*Seriously, what are apartment dwellers supposed to do in those situations? Apartments: for the happy-go-lucky. (Read: Single and oh, so alone.) I guess apartment owners figure that if we’re renting in the first place, we’re probably loners, and quite honestly, who’s going to miss us when we blow away in a swirling whirlwind of cats and frozen dinners, our tears, now, the bitter rain.

God, that got dark fast.

Nowadays, I go for long runs outside because I figure it’s a better alternative to going nowhere on some stationary machine at the gym while some sweaty, creepy dude eyeballs me until I see that portions of his lower body appear to be doing some (probably not so heavy) lifting of their own.

Awkward. Which is my point. So, as you can plainly see, the gym is not an option.

Also, the jeans. THE jeans. If you can’t fathom spending an entire paycheck on a pair of jeans lovingly sewed out of heavenly soft cotton crafted from the clouds above by angels themselves, then you can’t possibly understand how amazing they make my derriere look. Derriere. Such a proper word considering I wasn’t above a junk joke not more than two paragraphs ago.

Sadly, I have to fit INTO the aforementioned jeans for this incredible transformation to take place – hence, the running. The jeans are a burden and a blessing.

You can be the biggest advocate for running on the face of Earth, but five minutes into beating that pavement, that phrase gets literal, and quickly. Everyone who has exuberantly and ambitiously taken off running regrets it at some point within the jaunt. Everyone. And if you say, “Oh, I just love it,” I call your bluff. Maybe just for a second, maybe for the entire run, but it’s never FUN, or the movies or my favorite bars would come equipped with a track. And it’s certainly not fun for the whole family, because your baby can’t even log a mile and that just makes the entire family look weak.

I’d say that yes, I love the way I feel after a long run in the country, but I’m pretty sure the joy and peace I feel afterward primarily stem from the 12 hours in the future I don’t have to work out. At that point, I convince myself that I have earned my gravy-dunked fries and twice-battered chicken strips, which lead to a guilty food coma/baby, thus sustaining the vicious circle.

I do love running. To be outside when the grass has just been trimmed with the scent of honeysuckle and lilac in the air is nothing short of wonderful, but that is not to say it doesn’t have its low points. Particularly on ridiculously hot days when I INEVITABLY see a fellow colleague walking toward me a block ahead. Do I cross the street and break out the hurried, abrupt wave as I journey on my way?

Yes. Yes, I do. And the faster I run, the more likely no one will see my (quite worrisome, in fact) oxygen deprivation and become horrified as they realize I’m sweating (quite obscene) bullets.

As they approach, I pick up the pace and envision Rocky climbing those stairs. I’m breathing fiercely out of my nose, mouth closed with gritty determination trying to pull off looking like I’m at perfect ease with my run. Like I could do this all day. Like I love it. Hoping shamelessly that as they drive by, they’ll think: Man, look at that girl go! I am impressed. And GREAT derriere.

Of course, face red with exertion, body pushed to its breaking point, bug-eyed sunglasses on, I am unrecognizable to these familiar faces crossing my path.

When I get home, I collapse on the floor and turn on my air conditioning to the “arctic” setting. Chloe looks at me amusedly with a hint of ridicule before quickly becoming unimpressed, stretching and falling to her side with a disinterested yawn.

In the morning, I’m so sore, I can hardly even get the damn jeans on.

Little lamb, Mary reunite after falling out

After 15 years of silence between two iconic figures of pop culture, Mary and a not-so-little lamb reunited with a stilted embrace that onlookers described as “emotionally inept.” The apathy of the once inseparable pair was surprising to spectators, many of whom had grown up with fond memories of the two.

“I thought Mary and that little lamb were just the best of friends,” said local bystander Gary Applewood. “I always wondered as a kid why the little lamb loved Mary so, but then I heard that Mary loved the little lamb. You know?”

“Deep stuff,” Applewood said appreciatively, a faraway look in his eye.

In a special, street-side interview with the two, the lamb admitted that the rift between it and Mary began with the transition into her teenage years.

“Our days used to be all giggles and fun when she smuggled me into class,” the lamb thought back fondly. “The teacher turned me out, but I waited patiently about, cuz, well, that’s how the rhyme went.”

“Also because the girls would comb and tie colorful ribbons in my wool!” it proceeded to burst out abruptly. “I looked good. Baaaaawfully good.”

But soon the wool got pulled over the lamb’s eyes. It began noticing a change in Mary as soon as the age of 15.

“She started wearing make-up and paying more attention to her clothes. She had an insatiable hunger for woolen scarves and sweaters awash with colorful designs,” said the lamb, its voice breaking with pent-up emotion.

“I soon discovered a loom in the living room and made the connection: I wasn’t a pet. I was a pawn in a story that left me naked and shivering in a dank, dark stable,” the lamb said, looking away in humiliation. “Ok, so I still slept in her room on a bunch of blankets, but do you know what it’s like to be naked? In PUBLIC? Worst nightmare ever, amirite?”

“This guy knows,” the lamb said, nudging an obese onlooker out of his drumstick-eating daze, grease dripping from his elbows.

The man looked down in shame. On-site reporters confirmed that yes, it was awkward for everyone.

“Hey, that fleece was white as snow, ok?” Mary fired back defensively. “People back then paid top dollar for such wonderfully soft fabric.”

“Then Old Navy came along,” she commented bitterly.

“Aaaaanywhoooo….every time that pair of shears came near me, I would shake in sheer terror,” the lamb said, yukking it up with a tentative smile. “Get it? Sheer? Shear?”

Silence rang from the street as witnesses stared blankly with disinterest.

“Well anyway, the ladies down at the 5th street cafe always get a giggle outta that line,” the lamb commented, clearly crestfallen that no one found the pun worthy of even a pity chuckle.

“Though back then when it was happening, it wasn’t funny,” he thought back with a frown. “Naked, you know. Right.”

As the interview wound down, closing the chapter on Mary and the little lamb, the lamb had one last thing to get off its chest.

“It’s Marty,” the lamb said. “My name? Yeah, Marty,” he called after a quickly dissipating audience.

“Crap, that’s not gonna stick.”

The little lamb and Mary were last seen parting ways indifferently after their run-in, though both participated in a dramatic look-back, wryly smiling at one another one last time for aesthetic public appeal.

When Pancakes simply won’t suffice: A kitten adoption story

I’m going to let you in on a little secret about my life: It’s remarkably….unremarkable. Hence, I present unto you the story of how I adopted a permanent pain in my ass. Well, at least for the next 11 years or so. How long do cats live again? 15 years? Sheesh. I was unaware of that statistic when this whole scene went down. To which I only have one thing to say:

Frack.

It was February. Wait, was it? Well, it was definitely 2009 and I can assure you on this particular day, I was in a furious mood. There’s something about getting broken up with in a work email on a Friday a month before your boyfriend (of whom you’ve been dating for over a year) returns from his 9-month tour in Iraq that just brings out the lividness in a girl. Who knew?

In my 25 years of existence, I should have realized right then and there that under extreme circumstances, I become what some call “impulsive.” Once an idea is in my head, that’s it. It’s happening. And whoever’s nearby can bet their ass they’re coming along for the ride.

This form of reckless abandon has caused me to dance atop many a bar, buy a pet leopard gecko (Sadly, Stewie didn’t make it through the winter…), hop apartment fences for late night swimming and partake in what I can assure you was an obscene amount of shopping. Who needs Ben & Jerry’s when the new spring shoe line just came out?

In this case, however, it was the adoption of a kitten that enabled me to put the “rash” in “irrational decision-making.” Of course, at the time I thought my reasoning was both solid and substantial: If he doesn’t love me, I’m going to find something that does!

Right. Because when I think unconditional love, I think cats. Ironic foreshadowing #1.

The search began on the Internet as I sorted through nearby humane societies site by site. And then, there she was – the ONE, and I knew it immediately. Pancakes. A calico kitty, whom, because on her adorable photo, was already tugging at my own heart. “Save me!” shouted her wistful, amber-colored eyes.

I should point out that I’ve forever had a love affair with animals named after breakfast foods since the airing of one particular The O.C. episode. Summer Roberts, a prima donna turned hippie in the fourth season of the show, steals rabbits from her college’s lab in an effort to save them from probable harmless experimentation. She keeps just one rabbit for herself: a floppy-eared bunny named Pancakes.

So, it was settled – I would go to Lincoln over the weekend, visit some friends and then pick up Pancakes on Sunday before returning home. I was super pumped. Ironic foreshadowing #2.

Sunday came quickly, and over the weekend, I had also convinced some friends to come along with me to the humane society. A woman directed us to the cat section as we entered, and I anxiously looked for Pancakes, scared she had already been adopted by another fellow breakfast pet name lover. But there, hovering (quite menacing, now that I think about it – but maybe that’s just my overactive imagination) in a dark corner of her cage, were tufts of orange, yellow and white fur.

“I’d like to see Pancakes!” I said excitedly, and the worker carefully took her out of her cage so I could play and bond with the cat.

But no. This couldn’t be Pancakes.

This must be some kind of mistake, I thought, my heart sinking in my stomach.

Pancakes was, for lack of better words…past her prime.

“She’s been sick lately, and all of her meds are causing her to lose her fur,” commented the worker sympathetically.

I recoiled in horror.

“Go ahead and pet her though. But be careful – her meds also make her pretty cranky,” the worker added. “She actually bites quite a lot.”

Oh, GOD, no.

No, no, no. I don’t want to pet this hideous beast. But…I have to. I can’t have them thinking I’m only into healthy, pouncey, adorable kittens. What kind of owner would I be?! Wow, that fur just comes right off…

A war waged in my thoughts.

I gave the cat a few half-hearted pats before instantly becoming distracted with the other, ANY OTHER, kitten in the room.

Pancakes was put back into her cage, to die another day. If not that day. Oh, come on. We were all thinking it.

“What about that one?” my friend Christy asked as she pointed to a lively ball of gray and orange fur.

“Chloe? She’s a dear – very active,” the worker said with a knowing smile.

As I held the new kitten in my hands, it was love at first sight as she playfully pounced into my Coach bag. This time my thoughts squealed happily, OMG!!! She has amazing taste!

“I’ll take her!” I exclaimed, heaving a sigh of relief. Ironic foreshadowing #3.

So, we sat down to business. Halfway through the paperwork, it became clear that if you live in an apartment complex, in order to adopt an animal from the shelter, you must have permission from the apartment owners. I called and from the other side of the line, heard a resounding, “No.”

And that was that. But if you know me, you’ll know that it WASN’T that. I was walking out with a cat, dammit. Broken up with on a FRIDAY. AT WORK. Didn’t anyone understand!?

My friends and I left the shelter to grab lunch.

“Jared, adopt the cat for me,” I said immediately once we were seated for lunch at Bisonwitches (shameless plug for the best sandwiches in the world).

“Ok.”

Easy enough. Except that his landowner also needed to sign off, and upon Jared calling, said he would be stopping by later that day to collect the extra rent money for having a cat in the apartment.

Jared silently held up his hands in defeat and I marveled over the irony that this moment was one of the few I saw value in my married friends growing up and buying big kid houses. I called up my friend Phil, proud homeowner for years.

“Phiiiiil?”

“Sigh. You know I’m super allergic to cats, right? I can’t even be near them, they puff up my eyes and make me itchy,” he said unconvincingly. Which is why, to this day, Philip T. remains one of my favorite people in the world.

“Just try not to pet it too much and say you want it right away,” I said. “It won’t be obvious at all.”

We trooped back to the shelter.

“Phil,” I said in a overly-rehearsed, excited voice, “you should TOTALLY adopt this cat. Isn’t she just adorable?!?”

Christy, Jared and Phil nodded their heads obediently in agreement.

Nailed it.

“Lovely,” he said with a grimace before forcing a smile. I liken his attempt to pat Chloe to mine in petting Pancakes. “I must have her!”

As he filled out the paperwork, the worker handed him a variety of cat information to take home. When she wasn’t looking, he held them toward me so I could either approve or disapprove his selections.

“Obviously, you’ll want this list of in-town vets so you can license Chloe,” the worker said, handing him a sheet.

Our eyes met. I shook my head.

“Nope, already have a vet,” Phil said.

“Then here are some treats, and you’ll want to pick out a collar for her,” the worker said, handing him a variety of colorful collars.

Pick purple, I screamed at him silently, as his hand rested atop the red collar. He looked at me. Purple, I mouthed. He smirked and picked red. Asssss, I thought.

“She’s very good with dogs,” the worker said, as Chloe proceeded to scratch the living hell out of a coworker’s arms as she led a dog past us.

“I see that,” Phil said, stifling laughter. Punk, I thought.

We made it two steps out the front door before Phil handed her off to me and we walked to our separate cars in clear view of the receptionist.

“Thanks, Philip T.!” I yelled, and he aimlessly waved back without turning around.

On the hour and a half car ride home, my sinuses became congested and my eyes scratchy. For, as I was well aware at the start of this adventure, I am deathly allergic to cats. Ironic foresha…aw, you get it.

The entire way home, that damn cat meowed like her life was over. So, like any new pet owner would do, I turned the music up higher to bask in the horrible mistake I had just made. This is how I know I should never have children.

To this day, Phil tells me stories about the letters he receives from the shelter asking him about his satisfaction with the cat, as well as how he is getting along.

“I finally told them that I lost her, and she took off in the direction of Columbus,” he said. “It seemed true enough.”

Footnote:
I can honestly say that my allergies adjusted to my cuddle bug and we get along quite famously now, despite her blatant disrespect in destroying all shoestrings, tank top straps and sheets of paper I accidentally leave laying about the apartment. Her fascination to tip over anything with water and her ability to open the bathroom door while visitors are in the room are quite endearing, really. At the very least, she has a knack for falling into the running shower at least once a week that provides me endless entertainment.

But I can’t complain. Chlo sits in the sink every morning and watches as I do my hair and make-up, and feels the need to be at my side at all times. In all actuality, it’s a love story gone horribly right.

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