Yesterday I took my cat, Lola, to the vet because she had what appeared to be a bladder infection.  She also had had a slight eye infection (but that had basically cleared up on its own a few days before the appointment.)

The vet said it probably wasn’t a bladder infection.  Rather, in times of stress (check, we just moved) some cats develop a case of cystitis that mimics a lot of the symptoms of a UTI (same as in people.  Needing to pee a lot and not producing much.)  

“Stiiiillll,” said the Vet “you might want to collect a urine sample from her once you get home so we can test it.  Just to be sure.” 

Here’s how you do that, fyi:

1. Purchase new, clean litter box or carefully wash, rinse and dry old one (be sure to rinse away all the soap residue, because it can affect the p.h.)

2. Fill box with un-popped popcorn kernels (non-absorbent, but mimics litter)

3. Stick popcorn box and irate cat in bathroom.  Close door.

4. Listen to cat yowl in bathroom for approximately an hour.

5. When you finally hear sound of cat scratching around in kernels (assuming she doesn’t use the bath mat out of pure, acid spite) release cat from bathroom. Sift popcorn kernels out of puddle of steaming hot cat piss. Tip piss into collection jar.  Store in fridge for morning trip back to vet’s for $40 urinalysis.

6. DISCARD POPCORN KERNELS.  Do not attempt to pop and serve.

I am pretty sure I don’t want to do that.  And I’m not going to, either–unless it doesn’t clear up in a few days (cystitis goes away by itself.)

Also, when I mentioned the presumptive eye infection, the vet said it was probably herpes.  Eye herpes. Pretty common in cats, turns out.  I didn’t hear very much that she said to me after that.

I’m currently in the process of moving out of my low-rent, one bedroom apartment in a neighborhood that, in the wholesome small town in which I live, passes for a “ghetto.”

My rental property just sent me an amusing (although it’s really more of an inside joke) list of pre-move cleaning tasks I’m expected to complete.  Apparently, if I ever want to see my security deposit again, I’m to do things like “wash down the walls and baseboards”, “wax the kitchen floor”, and “have the carpet professionally cleaned, if necessary.”

This list should be titled “excuses for us buggering off with all your money” because we both know (me and my property manager) that that kitchen floor will never see a can of floor wax in all of it’s long and and inglorious existence.  In fact, in my experience, a tenant is just as likely to get their money back spending days furiously cleaning, as they are if they kick holes in the walls and defecate in the vegetable crisper before dropping off the keys (which is to say, not very likely at all.)  

It would seem to me that, while initially profitable (actually VERY profitable, since my rental company deducts $25 AN HOUR for cleaning that we all know they don’t ACTUALLY do…..the place wasn’t particularly clean when I moved in, either) this little scam has got to stop paying out at some point.  Mostly because, knowing we’re never going to see our money again, a lot of tenants just say ‘to hell with it’ and go buckwild painting the walls orange, adopting a few reeking, incontinent pet ferrets, etc…..

If your landlord is going to cheat you no matter what, junking up the apartment before you leave almost feels like the only way to reduce the unpleasant feeling of cognitive dissonance that comes about when you know you’re getting taken advantage of and there’s really nothing you can do to fight it (…..nothing except making sure they actually HAVE to shell out a few hundred bucks to cleaners and painting companies to fix it.)

Whoo boy, this one ain’t gonna be pretty.

I got boy issues. The regular kind – regular for me, anyway. I fall in love with Guy, he instead decides to date someone so vapid, so needy, so unfathomably dull that I begin to question not only my value on the interpersonal marketplace, but also my place in this world.

Thing is, Vapid Needy Dullard also has a hot body. Of that, there is no denying. As for myself, I have an average-to-fat body, which I think looks perfectly fine and sexy, but which many men, particularly young ones like this guy, find about as appealing as a poo sandwich.

Because of this, you may think that what I’m about to say comes from the fact that I’m a bitter fat bitch who can’t get any. If you’re thinking that I just need to get the cake out of my mouth and shut the fuck up, then there’s not much I can do with that. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I am all of those things. But I do feel like someone finally needs to put it all out on the table. And I don’t care if you think I’m an asshole because of it.

What I’m talking about is the social situation that we all seemed to have conspired to make possible, where men – many, many men, gay or straight or whatever – feel it is their birthright to have only the most attractive sexual partners. That they not only are attracted to people who are insanely fit, with thick, shiny hair, very little fat, the ability to put one’s legs behind one’s head, and completely hairless junk, but that they feel like anything less than that is an affront to their human rights.

In my personal example, okay, the guy is attractive. But so what? That means he gets to eliminate 98% of the population because he talked his cock into having such pitiful response that it will only get hard if he knows other guys would be jealous of him? That’s some grade A stank bullshit right there. Fuck that.

There are probably men out there reading this, fuming with rage because they feel I’m being one-sided about the issue. That balding/fat/bespectacled/less than gorgeous men have it rough, too, and women are just as lookist as men.

Well, yeah, the one’s you’re trying to date are lookist. Because you feel it is your god-given right to date the hottest chick in the room, yeah, you’re gonna get rejected for being human. But I will say this: I have never rejected someone for being fat. I have no problem with bald guys. I love glasses. I am not looks-obsessed. But would you date me? Someone short, fat, with opinions about where to eat tonight and what movie to see? Someone who, when you tell a stupid joke that isn’t funny, refuses to act like you’re hilarious? Yeah, thought so.

Look, I know I’m coming off as a sputtering fucktwat. It’s not that I only blame men – like I say, we’ve all conspired to make this happen. We try to diet and plump up our boobs and do all that stupid shit – we could all decide not to, that we won’t play the game. and men could decide that having a good time with someone, and laughing and being close, is better than impressing The Guy Masses out there with how perky your girlfriend’s tits are, or how tiny she is. I don’t see that happening any time soon. Until then I just have to tell my Guy, and many other guys out there, to grow the fuck up already.

The last several times I’ve flown out of our local airport, I’ve noticed a small, laminated list taped to the top of the podium where the people from Homeland Security stand checking passenger IDs right before the entrance to the metal detectors.  It’s a list of about 8 countries and reads “Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Libya, North Korea (People’s Republic of.)”

This struck me as funny, albeit in an ominous way, because, as “cheat sheets” go, this one is pretty idiotic. Do you really NEED a list to remind you that the above 8 countries are home to an above-average number of people harboring above-average levels of anti-U.S. sentiment?  Also, it’s not even an inclusive list of “terrorist hotspots,” middle Eastern countries, Islamic countries, OR countries where Al-Qaeda has been blowing up shit.  It’s more like a list titled “Countries Most Americans Have Heard Of Where They Hate Us.”  Hey, if you can’t find Sri-Lanka or Yemen on a map, why even waste time worrying about them?  

This time around I pointed at the list and asked the fat man in the orange plastic HSA vest what would happen if someone carrying a passport from one of those countries happened to show up at our tiny airport.

“Ohhh,” he said, grinning, “they get some real special processing.” And then he totally threw his head back, showing off the misaligned brown stubs of his remaining teeth, and started in with this loud laugh that sounded like BWAH HA HA HA HA!  Just like a comic book super-villain. “Yeeeep,” he repeated, “They get to go through a special process alright, MWAH HA HA HAAA!”  

Of course, instead of arguing with him, I just smiled and nodded because I was afraid that if I didn’t, I’d get to go through a special process of some kind too.