Tabs.

Saturday, September 25

I might end up regretting this...

In honor of it being, uh, a Saturday, today's blog is an awesome surprise.


Woah!? A surprise you say? Er, I say. Yes. A surprise. I say: A surprise. Now that I've said it so many times, I expect you to have your surprised face good and ready. Fantastic.


Okay, so when I was getting ready for my photo shoot last week, I had to hunt around in Mother's basement for some props. And amongst the Christmas ornaments and discard toys, I found this:


What is it? It's a scrapbook. A scrapbook from the 8th grade. As in, when I was fourteen going on fifteen. As in, the most embarrassing thing I've come across in probably my entire life. As in, of course I took pictures of it to post on the internet.

Duh.

It's actually quite tragic. And I feel like the only way I can properly cope with my lame 8th grade self is to set the lameness loose on the rest of the world. Really, I'm trying to lessen my burden here.

Please take a long, hard look at those current pictures up there. And try to remember how cool and awesome I actually am. (I put three instead of one to really drive the point home.) Don't be fooled by lame 8th grade me. That was ten years ago. It doesn't count anymore. I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations on life and coolness is only about five years anyway.

Okay. Okay. I'm ready. Are you?



There I am. Fourteen year old me. And yes, I cut my own bangs. I mean, I asked my hairdresser to cut them crooked like that. It was totally popular in 2000. Yeah--white eyeliner and crooked bangs were all the rage.


These are my friends at grade eight prom. First of all, why did we have a prom at the end of grade eight? And second, baby blue was also apparently all the rage, along with crooked bangs. Carla there was the only rebel to wear something not blue. She also had amazing boobs for a 14 year old and that dress really showed them off. It was scandalous. Also, I'm not friends with any of these people anymore. Do they still like baby blue? Are they even still alive? I HAVE NO IDEA.


Obviously I had a sense of humour back then. Of course. I'm still waiting for that law of the universe to kick in.


My ideal age is 18 because then I am alone. And preparing for my future. Yeah. I actually was that lame and boring. In the dislikes section of this book I put "people who do not like school", and I described myself as a teacher's pet in the education section. I clearly hadn't discovered fashion at this age (and I have cringe-worthy pictures to prove it, full of ill fitting jeans and crop tops) so I had to soothe myself with books and learning instead.


A lot of this book is empty. Apparently my room was clean, but where's the photographic evidence? I don't believe it!


I listed my favourite song as "Gravity" by soulDecision. I'm not gonna lie: I still remember all the lyrics to that song. The music video was in a bowling alley and they floated. And here you go; you can thank me later:



And, also, yeah, I put Faith Hill down as one of my favourite singers. Britney Spears too. And, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I had Backstreet Boys down as one of my hated bands. Luckily, I realized the err of my ways there.


This is maybe the best page of the entire book. Because I list my ideal boyfriend as a "vampire, shape shifter, or other night-worlder." And our wedding would be elegant and magical and "not like human weddings". And I actually described Edward Cullen perfectly ... before I even knew he even existed! See. We are meant to be. Hmpf.

To my credit, I must've gone back through the book later, because at the bottom I claimed I had been on some sort of drug while writing it (obviously drunk with vampire love) and then on the opposite page I wrote a much more normal boyfriend description.


This was empty. There was something there originally, because the sticker was ripped. What did it say? What inane thoughts did I have for my twenty three year old self?

Actually, it's probably for the best that I never find that letter.

And there you have it. Now, quickly forget everything you just read and focus on my current level of cool. Which is really high. And awesome. High five.

Monday, September 6

crazy cat lady.

So it's official now. I'm a crazy cat lady. I suppose my craziness has always been questionable--it really depends on who you ask and on what day. But the title of Crazy Cat Lady is officially mine.

Hoorah.

See, a while ago, a friend and I did some math (ooo, math) and we came to the conclusion that if a single person has more than three cats, they earn "crazy cat lady" status. If there are more people in a household with many cats, then the ownership can be spread out and thus, the craziness is spread out as well.

There are four cats here. And three people. Not so bad, right?

But Mother is away for work all week and Brother just started a new job so that leaves me home alone with four cats most of the time. And four cats most of the time means crazy cat lady most of the time.

(1 cat + 1 cat + 1 cat + 1 cat)  ÷ (1 person + 1 person + 1 person) sometimes - (1 person + 1 person) = my head hurts. And I'm a crazy cat lady. With way too much time on her hands.

Does that fake math even make sense? I have no idea. But I did enjoy putting in the fancy divided-by sign. Bam.

Anyway. The cats! There are two new ones. Well, old. They are mature lady cats and do not take too kindly to new additions.


This is Samantha. Sammy for short. She is 13. When we first got her, we thought she was a boy, and she was named after Sammy Sosa, who I am told is a baseball player. We found out she was a girl and when I started watching Sex and the City, I re-named her Samantha Jones. I haven't told anyone else this. She likes yogurt and sitting on your shoulders. She seems to hate fluffy cats with majestic tails.


This is Smokey. The best way to describe Smokey is with this story: once, she was chasing a mouse through our hallway and she sat on it and couldn't find it. No, seriously. It's a true story. She sat. On a mouse. It managed to live, despite her tub--when I finally picked her up, the mouse ran away. Probably to tell the others about the retard cat living in our house. Smokey's favourite thing to do is roll around. And that's pretty much it.



Wesley Snipes, Esq and Boo Radley are trying to fit in. Wesley turned three yesterday. And now that he's a distinguished gentlecat, I see no reason why he can't get along with Samantha and Smokey. I mean, look at that lounging. Who wouldn't want to be friends with a lounger like that?


And Boo Radley. Well. He's still incredibly jumpy. If you move too suddenly, he'll go running for his life to the safe place: under my bed. But when he manages to calm down and relax (i.e. when Sammy and Smokey are outside and the door is closed and he's super certain nobody is getting up to open in any time soon, but he keeps an eye on it just in case someone does open it) he sprawls out and lounges.




And. Yeah. Only a true Crazy Cat Lady would devote an entire day to taking photographs of her cats and making a blog about it. But it's Labor Day and EVERYTHING is closed. Jeez. Don't judge me. At least, not to my face. Thanks.