Another Exciting Day In The Life Of My Cat, Gerard Butler

My cat, Gerard Butler, recuperates after his stressful bathing experience

If you thought the Oscars last night were all about drama, you obviously did not see my cat, Gerard Butler's prima donna performance in the bathtub between the hours of 4 and 4:30, Pacific Standard Time. You are probably wondering why my cat, Gerard Butler, needed a bath in the first place since he is constantly licking his own body with his tongue, so I will tell you. My cat, Gerard Butler, has fleas. Seriously. He cannot be comfortable with his constant scratching, so you would think he would be grateful that I took the initiative and shelled out some cash for a bottle of flea shampoo. But he was not. His constant meows took on the tenor of guttural moans as I lathered up his flea-infested regions within the delightful confines of our bathroom. You would think I was trying to kill him when really I was just trying to save him. Not only that, but today I walked all the way from Walgreen's lugging a heavy container of expensive Tidy Cats kitty litter for his cat toilet instead of just buying a bag of Johnny Cat at the corner store. My cat, Gerard Butler, is spoiled. Several hours later, my elbows are still sore. Next thing I know, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going to be demanding Fancy Feast. If that day comes, it might be time for my cat, Gerard Butler, to go live with his father again.

My Cat, Gerard Butler, Watches P.S. I Love You on DVD. Declares It "Cheesy" But Cries Anyways.

the real human Gerard Butler

My cat, Gerard Butler, was so saddened to see his namesake die of a brain tumor that he just couldn't hold back his big plopping feline tears. Then he felt so lonely he kept me up all night with his extreme cuddling technique in which he sits on my head and comforts himself by digging his sharp feline claws into my scalp. I, for my part, was left wondering how this Holly character could go from grieving and unemployed widow to high fashionista shoe designer with her own store in about a week. I would sure like some of that mojo. When I mentioned this to my cat, Gerard Butler, he told me not to be bitter. Someday, my husband will die and then all my dreams will come true. Eerie cat.

The Big Musical, Act 3: Beowulf Meets Last Of The Mohicans Man.

I'm really enjoying spending time with Beowulf. However, I could have skipped that walk in the park when he caught and roasted a squirrel just because I said I felt like a snack. Frankly speaking, his dark age ardor can be a bit much sometimes, but he's so attentive! All the same, I realize my first duty is to help Beowulf and his men get back to the work of inspiring great literature before history is changed forever and the space-time continuum collapses.

Using the now discarded washer-dryer unit, the "cooking box," a wire hanger and a few pine cones, I rig up a rudimentary time portal that I think will do the trick. Much hilarity ensues as the men burn their Jamba Juice uniforms on a makeshift bonfire on the cement slab that is my backyard before donning breeches and armor for the trip home to the frigid north fifteen hundred years ago. Only Beowulf and I stand a little apart, both cognizant of how much has passed between us and that we may never see each other again.

"You could come with us," he sings in a moving solo as the smoke from the Jamba Juice uniforms drifts over the yard. As much as the prospect of living in another time and place has entranced me since my youth, disability checks were not invented until more recently. Also, I try to explain to Beowulf about fifth century psychiatric wards, but he doesn't understand. "It's called burning at the stake." Then he gets it.

"No, Beowulf," I insist softly. "I must remain." We kiss passionately, then one by one, Beowulf's men spring into the eerie blue screen of light that emanates from the device. In fact, the eerie blue screen of light is so blue that it resembles a waterfall. From the cave where I am hiding, I can hear the French soldiers coming. Beowulf (all of his men already through the portal) turns one final time to gaze at me with impossibly blue eyes almost glassy with unshed tears and sings forcefully, "Stay alive! No matter what occurs! I will find you!" Then he too turns and leaps into the eerie blue screen.

I stand in the yard, overcome by the sudden stillness and the fumes of the burning Jamba Juice uniforms. Just five minutes ago, my life had been full of adventure and the sort of men who'd never had the time or inclination to let themselves go. Now, I'm left with a refrigerator full of unidentifiable raw meat and a fire extinguisher.

But then something unexpected happens. (More unexpected than all of the above, of course.) Instead of disappearing, the wavy blue light starts to crackle and turn green. In a sudden explosion that does the props master proud and causes a few screams from the audience, Beowulf and his men tumble wildly out of the gulf followed by. . . Selma! As played by my cat, Gerard Butler (MC,GB) she's resplendent in red gown and cloak and matted, twig-like hair. As the music rolls and the curtain gets ready to fall in preparation for the fourth and final act, Selma sashays her way through the confused mess of bodies and smoke straight towards me and plants a big wet one right on my lips. The music changes. Bom-chick-a-bom-bom. Curtain. Huge applause. Next up: Beowulf, the adult film.

Isn't MC,GB Just Darling? Don't You Just Want To Forget About The Big Pain In The Ass That He Is?

MC,GB cutely endears himself to me, ensuring his survival

And now MC,GB just flickered his ear at me. Oh MC,GB, why can't you always be just this cute and fuzzy and still instead of peskily chasing chubby co-pet Morgen or standing on the counter making dishes fall down? And is it time for your expensive flea treatment again? How time has flown with the passage of time! It feels like just yesterday I was squashing you into place between my legs as I let a thin syrupy fluid ooze onto the naked skin of your neck from a snazzy green applicator. (Speaking of pesky--stop squirming!)

Regardless, I can barely keep up with your gargantuan needs for high quality cat food and kitty litter. It is high time I carry through on my threat to force you to take a part-time job to defray your living expenses. As you may know, I am currently staging rehearsals for Beowulf Man!, a Broadway-style musical that combines elements of everyone's favorite epic poem (unless you're into Gilgamesh) and the more recent artistic offering, Encino Man. As it stands, production costs are skyrocketing and you would be doing everyone a huge favor if you would just crawl out from under the futon or whatever other warm, dark nest you are hiding in and play Selma pro bono so I do not have to hire another actor. And you better do a good job because your gourmet cat treats are riding on ticket sales. The show must go on, even if none of the costumes are laundered.

When Asked Whether I Am Vegetarian, I Usually Reply, I'm A What's-In-The-Fridge-Itarian.

Somewhere, deep inside the bowels of this modern appliance, dinner is lurking.

I have completely regressed. When I was 23 I lived with a nice man in a nice apartment and cooked almost daily mails. We ate ratatouille, curries, homemade hummus. Now I am on the brink of turning 33 and I eat sour cream for dinner. Also, I am still sharing one bathroom with four roommates, only two of whom are nice men, and two cats who really, really hate each other. (One of the cats is MC,GB, whose unfettered chauvinism is not helping the situation.)

So here I am, on any given night. Instead of healthfully chopping vegetables and cubing tofu, I can be seen rummaging through the fridge with no real plan. Lucky for me, growing up with wolves really helped me learn to forage, so I am perfectly prepared for my current lifestyle. A spoonful of sour cream here, another spoonful of peanut butter there. Two whole food groups! Throw in a half-rotten peach and some whole-grain crackers and you have a well-balanced meal. Unless of course you only have non-whole grain crackers. Then you are in trouble.

I tried to cook all sorts of tasty meals for MC,GB's DD (that's my new acronym for 'my cat, Gerard Butler's deadbeat dad') but he did not like them. And MC,GB's DD was not the kind of person who would eat food just because it was slaved over. No doubt his cruel indifference crushed my soul and relegated me to my sad state of affairs today. In fact, speaking of soul crushing, MC,GB's DD still hasn't sent me his 'I'm sorry I drove you to drink' letter. I will have to email him a reminder about that. Meanwhile, someone please save me from myself and fix me a nice home-cooked meal. I am especially partial to tuna melts and tapioca puddings. I am also partial to you doing the dishes. Thank you.

Here is a poem.

Apparently, My Cat, Gerard Butler, Has Been Lying To Me. Why Didn't You Tell Me?

Liar! Liar! Liar!

Up till now I had blindly accepted my cat, Gerard Butler's (in hindsight) somewhat far-fetched assertion that he and 299 of his best Spartan warriors took on the entire Persian army alone at the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC. My cat, Gerard Butler (MC,GB) liked to sit with me in the quiet evenings sipping herbal tea as the scent of honeysuckle blew gently through the open window and I listened to him regal me with the thrilling sorts of tales that would arise from facing the entire Persian army with just 300 warriors. But now I see MC,GB's exciting yarn for what it really is: a tall tale!

No doubt you are wondering about why it has taken me so long to figure this out. Apparently, I am the last person on the planet to read classical literature, or, more importantly, to see the History Channel special, "Last Stand of the 300," which maps out the situation with all the accuracy, lack of sensationalism, and academic credibility that the History Channel is known for. (If you don't believe me, check out their special on Boudicca! Is that a slim readhead in tight-fitting leather armor? Why, yes, it is.)

The point is, the fact that something like 10,000 Greek soldiers and an Athenien naval contingent were hanging out at the pass with MC,GB and his trusty Spartans is readily available information that I did not know about simply because I usually try to keep as unaware of my surroundings as possible (because it is warmer here, in this bubble) and did not happen to catch the "Last Stand" any of the million times I could be found zoning out over the last year to the dulcet scholarship and live reenactments that are: the History Channel!

What I really want to know is, how did MC,GB think he could continually hide his callous deception from me? Evenutally, even I stumble onto Wikipedia, another rival to the History Channel for bare bones scholarship and academic accuracy, even if only long enough to grasp the extent of MC,GB's trail of lies. For example, when he told his story to the History Channel (behind my back), he did not even tell them about healots.

When I confronted him on another one of our quiet evenings, he claimed innocence at first, stating that he "didn't know" about that part of the story. But eventually he admitted to weaving his web of lies in order to appear "tougher" and "more valorous" and "marketable."

Frankly, I am hugely disappointed in MC,GB's behavior, but I'm sure we will be able to rebuild trust somehow. Maybe we can engage in a team building exercise by playing extras in an upcoming History Channel special. I could be a witch about to be burned at the stake for her third nipple and MC,GB would be burned at the stake for being my familiar. I am pretty sure I would look good in tight-fitting leather armor. Maybe I am a little bit Spartan after all.

Erroneously, I Stated That From Now On My Cat, Gerard Butler, Would Be Known As MCGB. Really, I Meant To Say: MC,GB

MC,GB insists on proper punctuation

Personally, I think commas are a stylistic choice, but then I wrote a novel without them.

In other news, I waited 45 minutes for the bus today. I am pretty sure some of the passing drivers circled around more than once just to gloat.

In even other news, I have not fallen into any sort of relapse situation with that regret, sorrow, and longing I was moping about yesterday. I also ate a sandwich today. Such a conglomeration of flavors.

From Now On, My Cat, Gerard Butler, Will Be Known As MCGB.

MCGB tries out his new acronym.

At some point I have to ask myself if this MCGB business is all just a really silly joke or am I becoming a crazy cat lady. According to Brent Cunningham I am crazy. (Brent has a Masters degree in something so clearly he's right.) Also, I clearly have a cat. Therefore, the only question remaining is: am I a lady? Now might be a good (belch)time to mention the headbutting incident when I was twenty or that last night in the living room I had to be reminded to clean up my toenail clippings. Nope. Not very ladylike indeed. It looks like I am just a Crazy Cat. This sounds much less like a frightening, lonely picture of a muttering woman in a bathrobe with frizzy hair and much more like enthusiastic, well-adjusted jazz hands. I guess I will just have to live with thaaaa-aat.

Also, I wrote a short story. You can read it here.

Announcing The Triumphant Return Of My Cat, Gerard Butler.

My cat, Gerard Butler

Recently my cat Stanley and I were sitting around chewing the cud, as they say, and we both realized hiding his true identity was a little silly. So what if all those women on that IMDb thread seemed a little strange. As my roommate, the Schadenfreude Prophet, reminds me constantly, this is the internet. What would the internet be without strangeness?

Since my cat, Gerard Butler, been away for awhile, you're probably wondering just how my cat, Gerard Butler, is doing. He is doing well. Thank you very much for your inquiry. My cat, Gerard Butler, is very excited about my new job because this means I will stop bitching about his deadbeat dad all the time and just get off my ass and buy my cat, Gerard Butler, his expensive flea treatment. Not that my cat, Gerard Butler has fleas, of course. We are merely talking prevention here.

A Little Bit More About Me. Not That You've Asked. How Rude!

I am most like the 'Gerard Butler' version of Beowulf. I may go a little berserk, but then I really think about what I've done.

I still have three, not two. That means I am still available to funnel your requests directly to Satan. Mostly I'll be asking for a new lifestyle. Flashy car. Wads of cash. That sort of thing.

I will be reading aloud (or stuttering aloud) my poetry at Pegasus in downtown Berkeley on Sat. Nov 17, 2007 at 7:30 pm to celebrate the inaugural issue of Sorry 4 Snake. Although I have sent a message to my lupine family living in the forest preserves outside metropolitan Chicago, I do not think they are going to be able to trot out to California in time to see the show. You may be wondering about my human, adoptive family, but I will just tell you this. There are two things I don't talk to my 'mother' about and the second thing is poetry.

It is still all about Disability in the City. However, this serious slice of the pie of life does not stop me from looking fabulous in my stylish thrift shop purchases or from having shallow conversations with my three best girlfriends about my shoe obsession.

I am writing a new opera. It is about the trials and tribulations of living on the Oakland / Emeryville border. For example, am I imagining things, or are there no street lamps on my block? Also I will be singing a moving aria to the stray pit bull that I ran into the other day and am hoping never to see again. At least it was just one dog. Not like the the wild pack of canines that tried to befriend me on my way to work one morning. Thanks passing motorist!

The libretto might go something like this:

Dog: Growl!

Me: Tra-la-la! Are you friendly? Are you vicious? Tra-la-lei!

Dog: Pant! Drool!

Me: IthinkI'llcrossthestreetrightnoooo-oo-oooow!

Of course, I could also write an opera about my slow internet connection in my bedroom that is making me blog in the living room with the smelly cat. (More on that tomorrow.)

But as far as I can tell, there are maybe only one or two things more about me to know and then you will know everything there is possibly ever to know about me. Ever. Of course, I'm lying. I lie all the time. But that still doesn't mean I find the music of Bollywood a nice choice for 9am. Like some unfortunate people I know. Right now. I may have to go and put on some death metal. Okay that will have to do.

In Other News, I Can Help You Write That 'I'm Sorry I Drove You To Drink Letter.' In Fact, Let's Do That Right Now.

Just look at what you made me do!

First of all, it's important to address me correctly so I know who the letter is coming from. For example, you might include one of the following as your salutation: 'dear ex-girlfriend' or 'dear ex-girlfriend' or 'dear ex-girlfriend.' You get the drift. Also appropriate would be: 'dear stalking victim' or 'dear stalking victim.' Yes, I am talking to both of you. Just because the first time happened 13 years ago doesn't mean it doesn't count. There is no statute of limitations on driving a person to drink.


In other news, my cat, Stanley, the cat behind the cat that is 'my cat, Gerard Butler,' has spent most of his 15 minutes of IMDB fame (now over) doing exactly what he usually does. Sleeping. Meowing in an annoying fashion. Eating. Chasing chubby co-pet Morgen around the living room. Finding himself confined to the kitchen and back hallway because his chasing of chubby co-pet Morgen is annoying to chubby co-pet Morgen and to others. Meowing in an annoying fashion. Also, he is not an enchanted prince. I have already checked. Nor, do I presume, does he have assets hidden somewhere in a Swiss bank account. That would be really cool if he did though.

In other news than that, an important commission recently discovered that 'job skills' is only one (alphabetical) letter away from 'job kills.'

Just a few more possibly appropriate salutations: 'dear co-worker' or 'dear employee.'

Or, 'dear daughter.' I'd be willing to write this letter myself and just let the guilty parties get away with giving me their John Hancocks. Yeah, we get along fine now. In fact, we get along really well now. But like I said. There is no statute of limitations about driving people to drink!

I feel like I must be leaving someone out. Although I (blah blah) now enjoy alcohol responsibily in small, manageable quantities, I did do a fair amount of drinking back in the day. And I am pretty sure it was always someone else's fault.

In other news, my cat, Stanley, the cat behind the cat that is 'my cat, Gerard Butler' is sleeping right now. I'm just going to go doublecheck and make sure he doesn't have a wallet somewhere that he's hiding from me. Being the core cast member of Disability in the City is really killing me financially. In my case, that's like killing something that was already dead.

In other news, if my cat could write, he'd be writing me that letter right now. I think you should probably take the next few minutes to do a little soul-searching.

In Case There Is Any Confusion Over My Mental Health Status, I Am Clearly Insane. However, I Recently Remembered That My Cat's Real Name Is 'Stanley'

my fake cat, the fake 'Gerard Butler'

Here is a funny thread on an IMDB messageboard about my blog. My cat, Gerard Butler, has now achieved the kind of notoriety and infamy that I previously thought was only available to my friend, Jack Morgan,or other people who post pictures of women in lingerie on their poetry blogs. If my cat, Gerard Butler, looked good in lingerie, I am quite sure Jack would have featured sexy photos of my sexy cat, Gerard Butler on his blog long before now. But. There is something I have to come clean about.

That is not even a real picture of my cat who looks exactly like the cat in the photo. All the 'real' pictures of my cat, Gerard Butler, are on the harddrive of my ex-boyfriend's computer. By 'ex-boyfriend' I of course mean 'my cat, Gerard Butler's, deadbeat dad.' So he has the pictures. I do not have a camera. He remains uncooperative. You figure it out. If my cat were a cat burgler instead of just a cat, we might have a solution. But he is not.

Also, his 'real' name is Stanley Kowalski or just 'Stanley' for short. Up till now, Stanley has preferred to lead his life outside of the limelight that accompanies being the cat my cat, Gerard Butler. But since the hullabaloo on IMDB, I feel that he might like me to share a few fun facts about the cat behind the cat that is my cat, Gerard Butler.

First of all, like his namesake in the Tennessee Williams play 'A Streetcar Named Desire,' my cat is abusive towards the women he loves. My cat, Stanley, is a notorious chauvenist. Believe me, you would not want to be senior pet, Morgen, a rotund calico who really just wants to be left in peace. Stanley is all over her and in her face whenever we allow him in the living room. He just wants to mount her, of course. If she would just let him do it once, maybe he would leave her alone. But no. Constant drama.

Another funny thing about my cat Stanley, the cat behind the cat who is my cat, Gerard Butler, is that he is shy about expressing his true self in front of people or animals that are not me. For example, he refuses to play in the living room in front of senior pet, Morgen, but will tear my room apart trying to catch a feather strung from a stick when it's just the two of us.

Also, Stanley is controlling about his cuddling. Always when he wants to!

So that is just a little bit about the cat that is the cat behind my cat, Gerard Butler. If only the real human Gerard Butler could find out about the hullabaloo then he could play 'Beowulf' and 'Selma' with us. With the stipulation that I get to be Beowulf, of course. And maybe, just maybe, the real human Gerard Butler will be able to answer the question burning its fiery imprint on my mind ever since watching the movie 'Beowulf and Grendel.' Who the f*ck is Selma? As if I don't already know. She is a sensual witch, of course.

High Ranking Commission Rules My Cat Gerard Butler's Deadbeat Dad Still 'Mockable' Despite Passage of Time And Chief Mocker's Emotional Healing

After a break in my important commission work, I contemplate my role as chief mocker

But I really can't list all the reasons he's mockable here. I have to start thinking about saving my soul. Rest assured the mocking will continue to happen, but it will happen during private mocking sessions with select individuals.

My cat, Gerard Butler, however, would like you to know that my cat Gerard Butler's deadbeat dad's other cat--with whom my cat Gerard Butler shared a home for two years--is a total Prima Donna.

Thank you.

In Other News, My Cat Gerard Butler Is Doing Well

my cat, Gerard, Butler, doing well

In other news, my as yet unpublished novel remains unpublished. It has also failed to sell more copies than the Da Vinci Code.

In other news, reviewing the Bible with one star on Goodreads failed to generate any controversy that I know of.

In other news, my mother practically begged me not to do the same with a certain other religious text. I honored her wishes. She is right. Practically speaking, that would have been a bad idea. It is probably a bad idea to talk about it here.

I finished most of my grilled cheese sandwich at Ben and Nick's last night instead of just the usual one-half. It was delicious and some nice people picked up my tab. Thank you, nice people.

In other news, I met up with the doctor and we went back in time in the Tardis and I was able to help a stumbling Herman Melville think up an idea for his next novel. A whale of a tale! Actually, I wrote most of the book. The best beach read ever. However, he made me leave out the part that Moby Dick is actually an alien from outer space. It was a great experience, and I'm glad Herman Melville got his book done, but sometimes it still just really hurts not to get any credit.

My attempts to prove that I am a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler remain unfruitful. But 'Dracula' and 'Draia' are both Romanian names and they both have 2 'a' in them. Their must be a connection! yo vral un pec palinka! Sorry, that is ghetto Romanian, and spelled phonetically. It means 'I would like some schnapps (blood).' I just thought, if I could prove my heritage, I might get free drinks at Death Guild. Not that I go there. But I know people that do. Maybe they could drink for free.

In other news, my cat, Gerard Butler is being lazy and not hunting, catching and torturing the annoying moth that is fluttering around my computer desk. Apparently he is taking a little vacation from being a Spartan.

And finally, DISABILITY! the musical is in the planning stages. Get your jazz hands ready.

I Am Going to Have a Niece! Her Parents Are Catholic Republicans! I Will Be A Hero!

a very relaxed Gerard Butler, just moments after sipping the last of his raspberry / hibiscus blend purchased the day before at the natural food store

I have something very serious to talk about today. I have a niece on the way now. I take this very seriously. I mean, everybody has to have a bad influence. After all, her due date is October 31. What a badass day for a baby to be born! However, that means I have just a few days short of two months to get a motorcycle, develop a severe drinking problem, and get ill-thought-out tattoos on a whim in very visible places. Like my forehead.

This is a really tall order, people. However, I figure that by making a spectacle of myself and just in general ruining my life, I would be doing my entire extended family a huge favor as well. If my family didn't have me to embarrass myself at wedding receptions or family parties, there would be nothing to do but make small talk with Beverly, third cousin once removed that no one possibly has ever met before. The family that laughs at the failure of others tends to stay together. And why shouldn't I be that failure? I can get up on a table, wag my finger, and sing "No, No, No!" in a smoky, soulful voice with the best of them.

Still, I am feeling a certain amount of trepidation.

Sure, I used to be a bit of a wild child, if I do say so myself. And I do. But now I'm older and hopefully wiser and I've gotten used to hanging out in my bedroom with my cat, Gerard Butler. We'll often spend a quiet evening together drinking herbal tea and talking late into the night about our feelings.

A typical conversation might go like this...

Me: Gerard Butler, am I fat?

my cat, Gerard Butler: Meow!

Me: Oh thank you, Gerard Butler. It's so good of you to say so!

my cat, Gerard Butler (coyly): Me-ooow?

Me: Oh sure. You can be Selma this time.


Going out to the bar every night to the point that I am sweating alcohol and look and feel like an ashtray would get in the way of these small but heartfelt interactions. But I mustn't be selfish. I have my niece to think of. Maybe I can compromise. Maybe if I ever get another f*cking cat carrier my cat, Gerard Butler, can ride on the back of my motorcycle.

In Other News, Please Bring Your Pitchforks and Torches to My Residence at 10pm Tonight.

some trusty villagers on their way to my residence to drive out my foul-tempered roommate

My foul-tempered roommate is not delicious to live with. And my poor little furry friend, Gerard Butler, is feeling the brunt as well. My cat, Gerard Butler, is not used to being verbally abused. That's it. That foul-tempered roommate has got to go. 10pm. And tonight it won't be stylish to be late.

In other news, everything I am wearing right now was purchased by Gerard Butler's deadbeat dad. The important thing to understand about going out with people with $ is that you pick someone who is not your dress size. Likelier than not, they will show their affection by buying you things. And because they aren't your size, once they are inevitably no longer affected by you, you will get to keep the merchandise. Not that I need cocktail dresses living in poverty and squalor as I do. Of course there are those fancy dress parties I throw in my bedroom for myself and my cat, Gerard Butler.

Ah! I just went down to the corner for Jarritos and now I am Jarrappy!

Apropos Gerard Butler. Last night when we were playing 'Beowulf' and 'Selma,' I got to be 'Selma' for once. My cat, Gerard Butler was quite dashing as Beowulf. I could see why Selma wanted to sleep with him. Of course she also slept with Grendel. Oh my god, did I just write that?! Did I just give it away?! We still haven't figured out just who Selma is. But this much I know: Beowulf + Selma + Grendel=LOVE TRIANGLE! If I were the anonymous poet, I would probably go back and forth between thinking all of this was very funny and periodically turning over in my grave.

In other news, my mother said if I came to Chicago to visit her she would make me piping hot tuna melts and delicious tapioca pudding every night if I wanted her too. Actually she didn't say anything of the kind but it never hurts to plant the seed. She also mentioned that it would not be any sort of problem for her whatsoever to do all the dishes herself while I lay face down on the sofa.

I was thinking I should write something called, 'Frankly, I Prefer My Own Mother to My Mother-in-Law.' Actually I don't have a mother-in-law right now, but I sort of did for awhile. Brrrrrr! The best part ever was when she sat me down at her kitchen table and told me to give her the "dirt" on my mother. My mom and I had a good laugh over that one. Everyone knows only I am allowed to criticize my mother. Usually during some part of the process of being ungrateful. In any case, the moral of the story is you shouldn't talk shit about my mother or I while make fun of you on the internet.

The Feral Child and the Tragic Bathroom: A Tragic Opera in 27 Tragic Parts, Each Part Lasting At Least An Hour Or So, If Not Longer

It could be the next Ring Cycle. Only better and longer.

The main plot point would be a thorough, operatic explanation of what happened to said feral child this morning when she whacked her head on some hard surface in her bathroom and bruised her tailbone on another, equally hard surface.

Obviously, something is wrong with the feral child. Luckily she already knows what is wrong with her so she doesn't have to sit around wondering whether or not she has a brain tumor. Getting all clammy and dizzy then passing out is just the feral child's body's special way of telling her she is allergic to something. The way she is allergic to ibuprofin. (And let me tell you, if the feral child weren't very, very allergic to iboprofin, she would be reaching for some this very moment to quell the pain of her bruised tailbone.)

So what exactly is the feral child allergic to this time around? Was it the "Neptune" salad replete with imitation crab meat and delicious Thousand Island dressing that she ate last night before going to bed? Or is the feral child allergic to only getting one hour of sleep the night before despite being in bed at an extremely reasonable hour? The little red numbers on the clock just kept taunting her. The clock will probably have a few arias to itself during some of the 27 tragic acts of the tragic opera.

Really I think we can all agree that it is a real tragedy when you find yourself whimpering softly as you lay your clammy cheek against the bathroom floor because the linoleum feels so nice and cool. I mean, if you're going to feel like that you might as well have spent the last 48 hours engaged in heavy substance abuse. And by substance I don't mean "Neptune" salad either.

But as for the opera.

Basically, the 27 tragic acts of the tragic opera would center around the figure of the Feral Child (albeit all grown up) and the awful events that transpire in her bathroom one morning when all she is trying to do is get ready for work. (Maybe she could wear a cute little headband with cute little gray wolf ears to indicate her heritage.)

The opera would also touch on the aftermath of such events. For example, some drama might ensue over the fact that there don't seem to be any soft, comfortable chairs around the house. I mean, for goodness sake, the feral child has just bruised her tailbone! The only sitting devices available seem to be those colorful, but bare-bones wooden structures known as 'Stefan' that everyone seems to have 3 or 4 of because they are only $19.99 each at Ikea.

I would, of course, play the feral child. Although I would like to take this opportunity to stress that although I know the feral child (and share some important similarities with her), we are not the same person. Just forget all that I said in the wolves post. I was really just talking about her.

I think Anna Netrebko should play my roommate. This way I would not be overshadowed by the supporting cast, in beauty or talent. Some of the libretto might go like this--


Me / the Feral Child: My ass hurts! A la la!! Where have all the softly cushioned chairs absconded to??

Anna Netrebko / the Roommate: I am pretty sure we burned them all for fuel last winter when the heater broke! A la lei!!


Or--

Anna Netrebko / the Roommate: It is so nice and cute of your expensive and pampered cat, Gerard Butler, to snuggle with you while you are icing your bruised tailbone!


That is great, is it not?

Really, if the feral child were still living with wolves, as she used to, she would not be making such a huge fuss about her bruised tailbone. She would just crawl into some dank, mossy lair and die until she felt better. See what being human does to you...

As for you, please stop paying attention to my adorable cat, Gerard Butler, or to my mildly attractive co-star, Anna Netrebko. Look at me instead! I am such a poor waif.

I Used to Live with Some Guy in a Great Loft in Fruitvale. Now I Lead a Quiet Life in North Oakland with My Cat, Gerard Butler.

Gerard Butler, housecat, in a moment of quiet contemplation

I love my cat, Gerard Butler, so much. I love him so much that I even went to the extra trouble of putting up some cute picket white fencing around the bottomless pit in our back yard juuuust high enough so that he would not be in danger of jumping over and falling in.

To spice up our quiet life, my cat, Gerard Butler, and I sometimes play make believe. Once we pretended that my cat, Gerard Butler, and 299 of his closest cat compadres defended our side yard from that nasty little Pomeranian mix from a few houses down who is always peeing on our walkway and leaving other waste products as well. In the end, the Pomeranian mix won the day, but my cat, Gerard Butler, and his 299 closest behaved so valiantly that I have to say they taught me a real lesson about courage, teamwork, and sacrifice.

We also play at 'Beowulf' and 'Selma.' My cat, Gerard Butler, and I trade off who will play Beowulf and who will play Selma.

A typical interaction might go like this--


Me/Beowulf: Selma? Who the f*ck is Selma?

Gerard Butler/Selma: Meow!

Me/Beowulf: What's that you say? You're telling me that you are a 'sensual witch?'


I would love to be able to share with you many other intimate details of the quiet life I live in North Oakland with my cat, Gerard Butler, but other pressing commitments are dragging me away. My cat, Gerard Butler, is hungry.