OMG

OMG Y'ALL.  First off, it's been 3 (or 4) months since I've written here, and also it's been about the same amount of time that I've been working as an ESL teacher, and it's been about the same amount of time that, wait for it, I've moved BACK.  BACK HOME.  TO MY PARENTS' HOUSE.  WTF?!?!??!?!?!?!

Let me enlighten you.  My dear sweet Fatty decided to injure herself, to wit, I came home one day and Fatty boo boo was not looking quite right.  I asked my parents when she started looking and acting like this, and they looked at me blankly.  Well, they hadn't even noticed she was off, at all.  I took her to the vet, wa wa wee wa her tail was injured, and fast forward now and she's all good.  At that time, though, I decided that living with the cat and making sure she was doing fine trumped living outside of the house where I couldn't have the cat live with me.  Sigh.

Having a pet you love is much like having a child, and anyone who tries to say that's not true is either a moron or an assbag.  Fatty says hi, btw, and she's doing fine.  Her poor tail was not functioning for a while there, but now it's back in action.

SOOO now I'm here, at the parents', working as an ESL teacher, and I have so much to tell you in that regard, so let's get started!

Teaching ESL is so much like babysitting that it concerns me a little bit.  I'm one of those people who has known I haven't wanted children since I was 4 years old, so trust me when I say that babysitting is one of my least favorite activities in the entire universe of possible activities that I could do.  And for those parents out there balking at this statement, I don't agree that it's different with your own children - no matter what, kids are kids, and they're ANNOYING.

Well, I was super excited when I first stepped into the classroom - after all, teaching ESL seemed SO FUN!!!  I walked in that first day (nay, week and month), enthused, ready to go, and excited to teach!  Well, let's just say that by New Year's Eve, 2 months later, my opinion and attitude had changed quite a bit.

Teaching the 18-25 crowd, and even the 25+ crowd, is not unlike daycare.  You shush everyone all the time, you play bingo and hangman, and you constantly tell them to look up here!  Eyes up here!  Everyone here now!  Clap clap clap - LOOK UP HERE!!!!!  PAY ATTENTION!!!!!

I always hated babysitting, and let's face it, teaching...yeah.  It's not great.  So we'll see what happens, but chances are, it won't be happening that much longer.

So living at home again...it's special.  So special that it'll be getting its own series of posts.  Until then, ta ta!

ESL Class

Friends, I've been holed up in Kenmore Square for the last 4ish weeks, receiving training to become a certified teacher of English as a foreign language.  DAS RIGHT.  In just a couple of days, universe willing, I will be certified to teach!!! 

As a long-running, potentially card-carrying member of the unemployed clan, I'm delighted to have found something that strikes my fancy and that I seem to be good at!  I hope others agree, and so far it seems they do!

Just wanted to share my joy with you.  Carry on your day!

XO
DH

Separation Anxiety - Cat Style

Just look at her pretty face!!!


My move out has been hard on everyone.  Ok, that's a lie, it totally hasn't been hard on me at all!  In fact, I feel great!!!!  My mother has taken it well (though every time she sees me, she clutches me to her bosom like I fell off the Titanic and she's only recently discovered that the daughter she never got to know is alive and well), and my father keeps calling me to ask me for help around the house and to subtly imply he misses me by telling me that Fatty has been asking about me.

There is one lady, though, that hasn't been taking my non-constant presence well.  And that, dear readers, is my sweet and wonderful Fatty!

Fatty is feeling mixed emotions.  While she's happy that I've finally bucked up and proven that, in fact, I can take care of myself to an extent, she's wondering why she is not part of the packaged deal???  Fatty's well read, and she is especally fond of the Philip Pullman series, "His Dark Materials."  She is pretty sure that she's my daemon, so she's not clear as to how she can live in my parents' house while I gallivant to and fro, hanging out with my roommate's cat and cockatiel.

Fatty knows I've been cheating on her.  The first few times I came home, she sniffed me like I was a total stranger, turned herself around, and left the room.  She's lightened up since then, and now she does the usual run up, meow, plop over, and roll around to which I am accustomed.  I can tell, though, that she harbors resentment, but it's that kind of resentment based in true undying love.

For example, when I try to pick her up (which she normally hates), she lets me do it, but not with at least 4 meows of disgust.  But she doesn't get all tense and uncomfortable and unsqueezably board-like like she would when I lived at home and would hug her 24/7.  My fat cherub misses me.

Fatty is a master of the "WHAT?  Why are you leaving the house?????" look whenever I go out, but now, it's soooooooooooo much more deeply pathetic.  It used to be just a look, or maybe a mild gaze.  It has turned into a full-body rejection.  She walks across the room, turns her back to me, then turns her head over her right shoulder, the whites of her eyes showing all around.  She looks simultaneously enraged and deeply depressed.  Thank goodness I don't have a cat who goes and pees on all my stuff when she's mad.  She's too classy for that.

Fatty, this is an open letter to you:  I LOVE YOU!!!!  YOU'RE THE ONLY CAT FOR ME!  In fact, the only animal for me!  I'll come squeeze you a lot, so have no fear!!!

The Inevitable Has Occurred

Friends, readers, friend-readers - THE DAY CAME!  I MOVED OUT OF MY PARENTS' HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WHAOAOHWOAHHAHAAAOOOOO!!!!!!

That's right, DH finally got her shiznackle together and decided to haul ass to her own locale.  I have many people and things to thank for this, including but not limited to the following:  my parents, a certain bestie named Sarah H------g, turning 29, the South, and of course, my therapist.  What?  I'm like Ron Artest/Metta World Peace.  It's the 2011's, people!

I have moved to a not-so-distant semi-urban neighborhood that is a short jaunt to my parents' home (and my dearest Fatty who will not be living with me for the time being).  I'm also starting a class to get certified to teach ESL, so I'll be occupied doing that.

Ok enough about me!  Let's talk about how moving out does not actually disqualify you from still being, even in absentia, a Desperate Housedaughter!

Example A:  Not 2 days after my arrival in my new apartment, I get the following phone call:

[Phone - ring ring!]

DH:  Hello?  Hi Dad!

Dad:  I don't friggin' understand this friggin' thing, what the FRACK?

DH:  Dad, what are you talking about?

Dad:  The clothes washer!  Do I turn the button to the left or to the right or under the...??

DH:  What?  What button?  Are you doing laundry?  No no no no make Mom do it!  You'll screw it up.

Dad:  [Whining] DH, c'mon please just explain it to me :(.....  [Incidentally, not only have I explained to him how to do laundry at least 5 times before, I've also physically showed him at least 10 times.  Seriously, he's 61!!!  Get with the program, yo!]

DH:  Ok, turn the dial all the way to the equivalent of 8 o'clock on a clock.

Dad:  WHAT?  It's 8 o'clock????????????

DH:  NO!  OMG for realz dude, the button.  8 o'clock.  DO IT.

12 minutes of explaining later, I think he got it working, but honestly, who knows.


Example B:

[Phone - ring ring!]

DH:  Hello?  Hi Dad!

Dad:  UGHHHHHH

DH:  Oh boy, what now?

Dad:  I have to take my car to get an oil change.  Can you do it?

DH:  Um, why?

Dad:  Please? 

DH:  Why can't you do it over the weekend?

Dad:  PLEEAAAASE??? 

DH:  Shit, dude, are you for real?  [click]


There was a third phone call involving a request to get a friend, drive the friend to my Dad's car parked in a parking lot, and have the friend and I drive the two cars home so Dad could take the subway to the airport and not leave his car behind in the process.  Mm hmmm.  Seems like my Dad is the one who is missing the housedaughteriness more than he imagined!

Anyway, readers, since a housedaughter's work is never done, I'll keep coming to you with my stories, so please keep reading, and sorry for the 2 month gap!  I'm back better than ever, though!

Kisses,
DH

Dr. Bentley, We'll See You Next Week

When poor darling Fatty has to go to the vet, she gets very very very upset. 

Fatty is (thankfully) afraid and respectful of me as her most present, large, and loud authority figure, so she'll comply with me when I have to shove her into her Fatty carrier and put her in the car for her appointment.  However, from a specific incident involving 2 parents, a Desperate Housedaughter on vacation in California, and a non-compliant feline who ran and hid under the bed at the sight of her carrier being pulled out mere minutes before the vet appointment, I have learned that I must take out Fatty's carrier ahead of time.  Specifically, at least one week in advance for her to see it, acclimate, and then be shoved into it at an unknown and random time.  I just took it out today for her appointment next week, in fact!

Lest you find this method cruel, please try it yourself.  It works amazingly.  The element of surprise is critical.  Poor Fatty doesn't see it coming, and it's hilarious!!!!  Getting her in requires one firm shove, and then it's over.  Truly miraculous!

En route to the vet is when Fatty is the worst.  She meows the entire way there, and by meows I mean great big loud moans of disgust and horror like a baby whale dying.  The production only gets more intense as we stop the car, head into the waiting room, and then inevitably hang out for a bit until they're ready for her.  She wails so loudly that the people behind the desk look at me the way I look at moms of 4 year olds in the grocery store checkout line.  Sorry ladies, I get it now and will stop judging.

After we're escorted to the exam room, the vet tech attempts to lure Fatty out of her carrier, with no success as Fatty has now smushed herself to the furthest back point in the container and cannot be reached.  Super!  So then we just go with the flip the carrier on its side "dump-and-let-gravity-do-the-work" method, and the cat has no choice but to slowly slide down and plop onto the stainless steel exam table.  She shoots me an angry stare but then focuses her attention on the vet tech and hypervigilance.  I've watched enough Cesar Milan to know that I shouldn't coddle Fatty while she's at the vet, so I just ignore her and discuss the appropriate percentage of protein that should be in her diet.

When the vet tech leaves to get the doctor, Fatty makes sure she sits with her back fully turned to me.  I attempt to console her with the result that she turns her fluffy face toward me, unleashes a string of meowing profanity, and clearly wills me dead with what she wishes were her eye guns.  I never get a look so injurious from this animal except in this exact scenario, and she wants to make sure I know that what is going on here is UN. AC. CEPTABLE.  The look she's giving me implies the feeling I have anytime Fatty wakes me up at 5 AM (when I'll often mentally picture her bursting into a furry ball of flame).  She'd like me to go up in smoke and go to hell, in whatever order.

Then the doctor comes in, and BAM!  Fatty turns the tables big time!!  The loathing-filled creature of 15 seconds ago has been replaced by a sweet Southern belle greeting Dr. Bentley like she's a long lost relative.  Maybe it's her defense mechanism, but Fatty is so freaking nice to the vet that I have to stop and thank Jeebus for sending me a lovely fluffpuff like her.  I used to have one of those cats that unleashed fury and madness on the vet, clawing and attacking and injuring before escaping onto the highest shelf in the room, out of reach for at least 30 minutes.  Once a vet had to get stitches because of him.  Trust me, vets hate you after that. 

Not Fatty, though!  She's a sweetheart.  She gets felt up, told she's fat (not unlike my own doc appointments), and then is allowed to leave.  My fluffy baby jumps back in her carrier as soon as its made available, and she's generally quieter on the way home.  As soon as we get home, she runs and hides for hours, giving me the cold shoulder until her next meal or she reaches forgiveness, whichever comes first.

Tell me about your pets, readers!  I love a good going to the vet story. 

The Funk of 40,000 Years

I have a storied and somewhat ill-evolved history with squirrels.  For over 25 years, whenever someone called them rats with a fluffy tail, I defended their fluffy cuteness.  When walking through the Public Garden, I would often stoop down to feed one of them a potato chip directly from my hand.  When I would see one crossing the street, I would slam my brake and swerve to avoid hitting them.  In short, I was a squirrel's friend and a real delight.

Then came San Francisco.  Behold the photographic evidence:

See that little grey blur right in the middle of the picture?  That's a squirrel charging at me in Golden Gate Park.  That little bugger not only chased me down, it also climbed my pant-leg to get to my chocolate chip scone.  I shook it off, but not without severe emotional trauma. 

Look, I was so pro-squirrel, even after this event, that I just laughed at the cherished memory of it scaling my leg past my kneecap in order to swipe food from me.  But squirrels, you have done me wrong now.  Very very very wrong.

The date:  this past Monday night.  The time:  9 PM.  The scene:  Me going to the fridge to eat something despite the fact that I wasn't hungry.  Scene:

DH:  "Mom, WHAT is that smell????????????"

Mom:  "Your dad ate some canteloupe [sidebar:  I hate canteloupe and it smells like horrible rancid crap to me, so this was a likely scenario.]

DH:  "NO no no no no no no this is WAAAAAHAAAY worse than that.  EW!  [sniffs air while fridge door swings shut]  It's coming from there [points toward study, two rooms away]!!!!!!"

DH and Mom walk towards study, stench gets severely worse and very very overwhelming.

DH:  "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww WTF it reeks in here!!!!!!!!  It smells like DEATH.  I told you we have critters in the attic!  The effing pest guy came and everything!  It must have died in the wall!!!!!!  BLECH."

Mom:  "I don't smell it."  [ calls dad over]

Dad:  "I don't smell anything."

DH:  "BBBRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!"  [calls fire department]


The fire department came over and told us, yes it's a dead squirrel somewhere in the wall, stinking up our house for conceivably the next 4-6 weeks or more until it decomposes and gives us respite from it's disgusting malodorous body smell. 

In short, squirrels of the world, I'm SO OVER YOU.  You've lost an ally this week.  I might just go buy this mug:

Update:  As of right now, 8/4/11 at 11 PM, the smell has VANISHED.  WTF??????

Reveeeeyahhhh BEACH!

Here's a delight for your Monday morning, my lovely blog readers!  Last evening I went to the Revere Beach Sandcastle Competition to view the creations, and let me tell you, even at 8:30 PM, the crowds were abundant.  Although it was my idea, I credit my generally very enthusiastic mother for dragging the combined dullness of me and my father out of the house.  The above sandcastle was actually strung with holiday lights and itself was about 5 feet tall, and it was perched on a 5 foot tall mountain of sculpted sand that I didn't get in the picture.  It was eeeeenormous.

I overheard some ladies saying this next one was the winner, but I have no idea.  It was the most striking, however.  The whole inside of the shell was hollowed out!

Have a lovely Monday!  And if you want a tinge of bitterness to your Monday, just think about how these sandcastles will be destroyed by today's thunderstorms!  I almost wish I could be there to watch it. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!