Today I Called Cat CSI. What Did You Do?

Poor kitty in the plastic bag.

Six days ago a scruffy looking cat turned up dead on my neighbor's front lawn. Some brave soul who apparently was not afraid of being attacked by a feral cat zombie then placed the small, sad corpse into a standard issue white plastic trash bag (with a snazzy red tie, I might add) and dumped the whole mess on the parkway for Animal Control to pick up. Clearly some sort of huge disorganization mishap has happened in the City of Oakland in that Animal Control no longer seems to exist despite the numerous threatening phone calls made by my roommate, Dana Gier. Now, the scene has gotten decidedly more grisly as time, heat, wild dogs in the night, and even pigeons and itty bitty sparrows have pulled apart this carcass for their own use. Consequently, my front yard smells really fucking terrible. There is no other way to say this even though, apparently, my mother has recently Googled me and does not approve of my use of the f-word on line. Although I say it on the phone often enough so I am not sure why she is surprised. But back to the smelliest cat in the world. (I finally feel like I know what Phoebe on Friends was singing about.) The fun part of all of this involves the neighborhood children, of whom there are many. According to rumor, another dead cat has been discovered on someone's back lawn. Cause of death? If these rambunctious and very loud children are to be believed, we are now living under the age of the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street. I am pretty sure they are right, and I am more equally sure that the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street is my roommate, already mentioned, Dana Gier. If you think about, it is pretty clever of Dana to try to use the very authorities that he's thwarting to do his dirty work and corpse removal for him. Reason for my believe? My roommate, Dana Gier, has made hurtful remarks to My Cat, Gerard Butler, that have seriously damaged My Cat, Gerard Butler's sense of well-being and self-esteem. My Roommate, Dana Gier, has even thrown a pillow in the direction of My Cat, Gerard Butler (who of course is far too sleek and lithe to be met by such an object). Poor My Cat, Gerard Butler. Will he be next? So far, the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street seems to be focusing his energies and attention on outdoor cats alone. Maybe in the end, this little episode will finally help My Cat, Gerard Butler, understand why he is merely an indoor cat now, as opposed to when we lived with his (now) deadbeat dad and that big fat tubby prima donna bitch cat in a luxury loft with a beautiful walled garden for My Cat, Gerard Butler, to explore in the fresh air to his heart's content. All the same, Dana Gier, I am watching you.

Someone Please Save Me From Myself. I Will Give You A Dollar.

Could be yours.

1. I haven't read a proper book in at least six months. Sometimes I open a venerable tome and hold it in front of my face waiting for the "magic" to happen, but it never does.

2. My Wii Fit age is 44 because I have poor balance and my BMI is less than 22. Wii Fit sucks.

(And not just any dollar will I give you but a crisp, unfolded bill that won't be spit out of automatic payment machines as if it is some sort of economic pariah.)

3. My cat, Gerard Butler, is snubbing me because I told him I have no respect for his religion. Really, maybe that is kind of a harsh thing to say an adorable little housecat, but I put up with a lot from him. His internet fame has gone to his head.

4. The Beowulf craze is over. Now what am I supposed to make fun of? Really, this is the biggest issue of all. Myself? Clearly, I am feeling sorry about this. Please, anonymous someone, send me some sort of relief to fill the void and lift me out of this cruel postpartum depression. However, please do not send a tarantula or other pet item. My roommate already has enough living things that scare me.

5. My neck hurts. Boo hoo.

6. Also, I just quit drinking, again. Yes, I can hear you laughing. But there is nothing like getting hangovers without being even mildly tipsy. Obviously, someone has put a voodoo curse on me. Someone wins. Get me a Roy Rogers, stat!

7. I will just be lying here out on the porch whining quietly to myself until somebody earns that dollar. Please, please don't tell me I have to earn it for myself. The horror.

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.

Nothing Funny. Just Some Angst. Maybe You Should Look Away.

Life is weird lately. Last week something happened to me that sort of reminded me of that. I was at a party and a person who doesn't like me (and who has let me feel this on more than one occasion) leaned down three feet away from me to whisper in the ear of his friend something that sounded like "Psst psst psst Jenny Drai psst psst psst." Then the other person laughed.

I thought that was weird, because I think adults should use their manners on even people they don't like. I'll never forget when my high school German teacher said, in the context of a discussion of Nazi leaders who were good family men, that a person's character is not solely determined by how one treats the people one likes, but also by how one treats the other half.

Sometimes, I confess, I have bad manners, but usually out of social awkwardness or shyness. For example, I am still not very good at introducing people, but I am getting better. (Because I'm often outgoing, nobody will believe how shy I sometimes am. Or how easily flustered in environments where there's a lot going on.)

But what happened last week at the party reminded me more of my experience in grammar school. Some people are mean on purpose. They just don't care.

Sometimes I think about it, because maybe I expect there will be more to come. But I think I'm ready for it.

A lot of bad things have happened to me. And a lot of good things too. Somewhere in the middle of all that I became an adult. Definitely not perfect, but an adult. I think I'm learning to let things that bother me roll off my shoulders and to try to feel some sort of compassion for the person in question.

As for me, I finally figured out what I want to do with my life. Actually, I was in the field of social work before I moved out to California. So now I am applying for training programs in mental health services and substance abuse. My ultimate goal is to use my MFA in poetry and teaching experience to work in some sort of program where the creative process can be fused with the healing process.

Thank you.

Isn't Life Just Ironic LARP?

Need I say more?

For those of you who don't live with nerds or didn't grow up with wolves in a forest preserve where teenagers dressed in wizard costumes ran amok and clashed staffs, LARP stands for Live Action Role Play. I have always snickered behind my palm at the whole process, but now I think these forward thinking geniuses are onto something. For example, last night. Instead of endlessly debating my choices--go out and do something intellectual and socially lubricating by attending a poetry reading, or, on the other hand "accidentally on purpose" miss the bus so I could watch the end of "You've Got Mail" while laying on the couch with an ice pack on my knee. I could just roll dice that would decide for me. Which, in turn, would dispel any guilt I might be prone to feel for staying on the couch to watch "You've Got Mail" with an ice pack on my knee. (By the way, I will trade you two of my life strength points for one of your healing points. This knee thing is definitely getting in the way of my swordplay. Or my washing the dishes play. But that is another story.) Obviously, the die would never roll for the poetry reading because I've had them weighted against that outcome. But before you gripe at me for being lazy and immature, I am only down on poetry because poetry is down on me. Thank you.

Just A Few Things I Might Have To Say To A "Lover" One Day

1. "At this point, you could work at the gas station and still be my sugar daddy." Actually, this is true right now. But enough about me.

2. "Inferiority complexes are so sexy. Especially when you take off your shirt and do it." Not that there are any reasons, lately, to feel inferior to me. But that is the glamorous nature of inferiority complexes. They do not need a reason to exist.

3. "Stalking is over here. Personal dignity is over here." Yes, all in all, stalking is a very tedious business. It involves a lot of repetitive dialing. Also a lot of lurking around. Wouldn't you rather be out in the fresh air at a baseball game? Think about it. For all our sakes.

That is all I have to say today. Thank you.

Where Have I Been Since March 28? Let Me Tell You.

I have been in a coma. The coma was induced by me watching the director's cut DVD release of the recent Robert Zemeckis adaptation of Beowulf. Also, the fact that I, for some strange reason, used cash money to purchase the offending item at Borders, only served to worsen the blow. I have, however, woken up from the coma in time for Battlestar Galactica, which should be much better. Please can I have my money back.