Baby Gate (Guest Blogger: Pickle)

(Today's post is brought to you by a guest blogger: Pickle the Cat.)

I'm used to a certain lifestyle.

I expect my mothers to keep feeding the birds so I can snag one every once in a while, bring it into the house, and unleash an unholy hell for them to walk into later. (The expressions on their faces kills me every time!)

I expect to be able to drink out of the sink to my heart's content.

I expect to be able to jump into the bathtub after my mothers have showered so I can leave dirty Pickle paw prints all over the white porcelain.

I expect to come and go as I please. (My mothers know I don't want to go out in the snow, but I'll never give them the satisfaction of being right, so I go out there anyway just to prove a point. It's none of their business why I was only out there for two minutes. I'll never answer their ridiculous "well that didn't last long, what happened" questions.)

And I expect the baby gates to be in their strategic places so I can shake that mangy, menacing mutt, Parker. He's always up my ass. It's exhausting.

This morning I thought the whole family was getting out of bed. So I walked upstairs, waited by the sliding glass door for my mother to let me out, rolled around in the driveway a few times, and then got to thinking. Only one of my mothers came upstairs. So I took a shit under the deck - hopefully in a place one of them will step in when they decide it's time to bring up more firewood - and waited at the sliding glass door to be let back in. All the waiting I do around here is downright frustrating.

I was delighted to find my favorite mother was still in bed. I walked down the steps to the bedroom, feeling pretty good about the developing situation.

What's this shit? The door's closed!?

Why can't the idiots in this house understand that closed doors are my nemesis? Now, regardless if I wanted to go in a room or not, I have to because the door is closed and what if there's something really interesting in there, like a packing peanut, or a pebble from a pair of shoes on the floor next to the packing peanut!?

I waited. Twitched my tail.

I waited some more. Twitched my tail a few more times. Sighed. Put a paw under the door.

The door wasn't opening. Time to take a more drastic approach.

I started scratching on the door.

Nothing.

If some motherfucker didn't open that door, they didn't even want to know what they'd walk into tomorrow after work!

I intensified the scratching; added a few meows to let my mother know how serious this was.

Finally! The door opened. I was thinking to myself, 'It's about fucking time. I swear I'm getting sick of all this -' and then, as I'm tra-la-la-ing into the bedroom,

SMACK!

What the fuck was that!?

I was disoriented. I couldn't move. I stood there like a chump.

It took me more time than I care to admit to figure out one of the baby gates was overlapping the door frame by an inch. An inch!? And I ran my head, full speed, right into its wooden frame.

My mother wanted to laugh. I could hear it in the way her breathing changed. I would not give her the satisfaction of laughing at me, so I sucked it up and made my way over to the bed.

I waited for my mother to get back into bed and then curled into the nook her legs and stomach created for me. Her hand landed on my head. Ouch! It's a little tender there, lady! But she kept rubbing my head and my ears and, goddamnit, I couldn't keep the purring from happening.

Everyone's up now. In order to remind everyone who's in charge around here, I'm going to run in and out all day. Oh, it's coffee time? Time for me to go outside. Oh, your breakfast is ready? Time to let me in. Oh, you're settling in to read? Time for me to go outside. Oh, you're thinking about writing? Time to let me in. I can do this all day long.

That's what bitches get when they want to laugh at me.

Memorial Day

I saw my first dead body when I was twelve. It was my grandfather, and it was weird.

I want to talk to the person who decided it was a good idea to drain all the natural fluids out of a body, replace said fluids with chemicals, put makeup on the body, dress it up in clothes you'll recognize, and present it to you as a loved one.

Because, honestly, that shit is fucked up.

Am I scarred from my grandfather's viewing? No, but I could tell by looking at him it wasn't him. Not anymore. His skin was gray. The amount of makeup he was wearing would have made Tammy Faye proud. His lips looked weird, like they had deflated. Forget about touching him! You want to scare the piss out of a child? Take them to the viewing of a body. And then tell them they have to touch it.

That's why I say, Burn me. I don't need to take up more space and resources than I did when I was alive. Scatter the ashes or don't. I can guarantee you I won't give a shit. I won't be looking down from the sky wondering why you didn't buy the Guilt Me Into Turbo II, even though the mortician said it was the best casket on the market. And a real steal at $7000.

While, yes, I do want to give my vegetables the very best, there is no way in hell I'm paying $7000 in Tupperware for them to rot in.

The death business preys on people who are emotionally confused, emotionally hurting, emotionally vulnerability, and it's bullshit.

Anyway, this holiday weekend, let's remember what connects us: being alive. So let's not only remember those who are dead, but remember those who are standing right next to us. Memorize their faces. Because, one day, they'll never look like that again.

Hump-day Haiku: Oprah

A fat black woman
Dethroned the Phil Donahue.
Welcome, Ms. Winfrey.

A thin black woman
Pissed off the Texas ranchers.
Get it, Ms. Winfrey.

A living legend
Watched Tom Cruise jump on a couch.
Fairwell, Ms. Winfrey.

Slip of the Slur

Joakim Noah was playing a game, making millions of dollars, and then a fan started taunting him. His blood pressure started to rise. His face flushed with anger. He couldn't take it anymore. He unleashed, doing his best to degrade the fan by calling him a faggot. (See my own dealings with the word "faggot" here.)

Collective gasp!

Wait, wait, wait. Joakim "<didn't> mean no disrespect to anybody." He was just caught up in a heated moment.

I understand, Joakim. I know when someone starts to razz me in the grocery store and I can't take it anymore, I do my best to degrade them by calling them the N-word.

I'm just joshin' ya, Joakim! I don't call people the N-word. The only time I ever refer to the word is when I'm rapping along with NWA. (The bass really thumpa-thumps in the Subaru.)

Sucks you're taking heat, though. If people understood you don't usually talk like that - those words are reserved for your finest moments with friends - then everyone would realize your homophobia is a secret and "faggot" was a slip of the tongue.

You've said it's no indication on how you feel about gay people, but the way the word was so readily available makes me feel like you're trying to pull one over on me.

You know why I keep the N-word out of my mouth, regardless of how upset I am, Joakim? Because it's an indication on how I feel about people of color. Funny how we see slurs so differently.

You're anything but a faggot, Joakim. But just so you don't go getting The Big Head, you should remember, every once in a while, that you're a man who plays with balls for a living.

A Business Opportunity

I'm not missing out on the next wave of bat-shit. I'm going to be ready the next time an old white guy who looks like he's off his meds yells, "Rapture!"

I'm abandoning writing to work on my new prototype: Rapture Jeans.

You may be asking yourself, 'Rapture Jeans? Why would I want to sell everything I own so I can buy a $100,000 pair of jeans?'

Oh, ho, ho, ho! These are no ordinary jeans, my friends! Take a look at the benefits Rapture Jeans provide:

They are flame retardant.
They can be used as a floatation device.
They make your ass look good even when it's been bad.
They repel locusts, two-headed dogs, and homosexuals.
They speak two languages, including tongues.
There is an Applebee's in the back pocket.
They tear away and fold into a bible.

What an amazing opportunity! And you have a chance to get in on the ground level. The next time Jesus is descending, don't be unprepared. All you need to do is send me a check for $25,000 to reserve your very own pair.

To those of you who decline this special offer, good luck in your Levi's. Last I checked, Levi's didn't make anyone feel superior.

Injuries

I have had a leg injury for several months, and my running schedule has been spotty. This was my first week back to running every other day. This morning I ran three miles, outside, in under thirty minutes. Granted, it was only by three seconds, but I still met the goal I set out to reach. Is it a miraculous time? Hardly. Are there better runners? Absolutely. Are there worse runners? You bet. But no one else matters. I felt accomplished. I did what I set my mind to do.

There is a lesson in this way of thinking. I figured it out this morning as my beloved mutt set a ridiculous pace, and my lungs felt like they were exploding in my chest. From this point forward, this is how I will approach my writing. Form rejections, personalized rejections, I've-decided-not-to-pursue-this-project-any-further rejections may flare up an emotional injury, but they cannot take away the feeling of accomplishment.

I wrote a novel. And I'm writing another. How many people get to say that? (Considering all the writers I have met on Twitter, quite a lot, actually.)

Rejections are a part of a writer's life. When you have a goal - a goal you've been dreaming about for years - a rejection can feel like a kick to the stomach that you gladly lie on the ground to receive. As I struggle to breath, I'll remember that I still did it, and I am a writer regardless if I am injured for the rest of my life.

Asking Satan

Some people think I'm mean. That I'm a bitch. That my heart is lukewarm at best.

They are gravely mistaken.

I am the devil.

That's right. Pointy tail. Maroon skin. You can find my pitchfork moonlighting in a fat man's hand at the Olive Garden. My body is always a balmy 666 degrees.

Look. I refuse to smile and fake it. I refuse to pack my bags for guilt trips. I refuse to betray my integrity to spare someone's feelings. Does that make me flat-top, flat-face, flat-out, cut you, pinch you, poke-your-eyes-out mean?

Let's ask the real devil.

Hey, Satan? When someone gets flowers at work and I don't ooh and aah because I think they smell like cat piss, does that make me mean?

Satan: Unfortunately, no. It makes you a dog lover.

Hey, Satan? If smokers must keep their addiction - by law - away from others, is it mean that I think fat people shouldn't be allowed to eat at buffets?

Satan: Yes, but I see your point. You wouldn't believe how fast a refrigerator clears out down here after a tornado rips through the Heartland.

Hey, Satan? Is it mean when I ignore someone because they annoy the hell out of me?

Satan: Absolutely not. Once I see it's God calling I find the nearest gay to tell Him I'm out! 

Hey, Satan? Is it mean to comment on people's childish emotions and strange behaviors?

Satan: Not if you're talking about Rush Limbaugh.

Hey, Satan? Do you think we'll meet one day?

Satan: Um...this is always so awkward...yes, I do.

It's the gay thing, huh?

Satan: It certainly helps, but no. Remember when you called Newt Gingrich an ignorant motherfucker?

I do, and I stand by it.

Satan: Well, he called me last night and said he wanted yesterday's post removed (I knew it wasn't Blogger!) and asked if I could get my hands on you. I gotta do him this solid. He's great at spreading fear and hate, and my recruiting numbers are through the roof!

Satan? Do you think I'm mean?

Satan: It's weird to say, but no, I don't. Any lesbian who carries her grandmother's purse when they're at the mall together is A-okay in my book.

Thanks, Satan.

Satan: Don't sweat it. Not yet, anyway.

Open Letter: Newt Gingrich

Dear Newt:

I'm sure you're aware you're a funny guy. To hear you say you want to lead a new morality slays me. And slaying me was probably your intent. After all, I am a part of the "gay secular fascism" that is looking to use violence to "take over the government" and "destroy traditional religion".

And we were getting along so well.

I know you've had a rough go of it. With your affairs and divorces and ethics violations, your morality line got muddled. So I understand why you would want to attack people like me. Gays are an easy target. We raise a lot of money when you start cranking the fear machine. And we take the focus off your egotistical fuck-ups. But, to be honest, I take slight offense, Newt. I say "slight" because if you were anyone but you I would be highly offended. If you were, say, Oprah or Obama or Justin Bieber - people worth their name - I would be devastated. But you, Newt Gingrich, are nothing but an ignorant motherfucker.

When you say gay people are violent and are looking to ruin traditional religion, there are people out there stupid and scared enough to believe it. So when I walk into an Applebee's (like that would ever happen, but go with it) and there sits one of your supporters, hitting on the waitress while his wife is in the bathroom changing his daughter's diaper, that Moral Compass is going to take one look at me, in my blue striped button-down shirt, red tie, and navy sweater - he hasn't even noticed my hair - and know that I am one of them - the gays! - looking to tear Jesus apart with my bare hands. And that may make him want to tear me apart with his bare hands. As our ideals and consciousness continue to evolve, those left behind get twitchy around people who, you say, hate 6000 years of their believed history.

Newt, I don't give a shit about Jesus. I give a shit about you talking like you're an expert on second class citizens and how our wish to be equal is somehow an agenda.

The only agenda I have is to be a published author.

If you don't believe me, come over. We can have a light lunch on the terrace (it's actually a deck, but you strike me as "that kind" of fussy.) You'll see there are no signs of violence, no plans for using violence, and that I'm actually not so bad. I'll tell you stories about how I carry my grandmother's purse for her when we go to the mall together.

In the meantime, Newt, lay off. You're no prince, no King of New England. (If you get the John Irving reference, I'll demote you from Ignorant Motherfucker to Motherfucker.) You have no more legs to stand on when it comes to being an example of morality. I hope you do run for president so your opponents get the chance to remind you of it, every day. 

Good luck,

Whack-A-Muse

Hump-day Haiku: Ayn Rand

Capitalism
is really working out for
sweatshops and assholes.

I could get on board
if we had a Hank Reardon.
We have Donald Trump.

How disappointing.
Objectivism only
looks good on paper.

Dirty Secrets

So, there's this commercial; perhaps you've seen it: A dad/husband has been up to something, something questionable, something never disclosed. This something has left him standing outside with a shit-like substance covering both his hands. He's standing by a clothesline; clothes are hanging, drying in the outside air. (This is a nice touch. In this age of excessive consumption, someone in the house is concerned with rising energy costs and possibly concerned about the environment.)

What a wholesome family. Well to do. Nice house. Nice yard. Nice clothes drying on the clothesline.

Dad takes a look at his hands, eyeballs the laundry on the clothesline, and proceeds to wipe his hands clean using a pristinely white skirt.

Noted: Dad is a douche bag.

The daughter, with her shit-stained skirt, goes to her mother. The mother shrugs her shoulders, laughs it off as if to say, Your crazy father, ha ha ha. He's such a card! The daughter adopts the same attitude.

Noted: There's something sinister, wicked, corrupt going on.

The mother does the laundry. The stain is erased.

The daughter walks by the dad, who is reading the paper, sitting in what I assume to be his chair, while the lady folk are cleaning up his messes. Not once does the dad take responsibility for his actions and not once are his actions questioned.

It's obvious what's going on here. Dad is a mean son-of-a-bitch, known to bust kitchen tables into pieces, throw lamps out of windows, and tear doors off of hinges. Dad can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants because no one wants to set him off. The nice house, nice yard is a cover for the fear and terror taking place inside.

What a great way to subliminally lets us know that domestic abuse must stop, and it must stop now!

And what a great way to let us know laundry detergent can erase a family's dirty secrets.

Spider Wrangler

It's Sunday morning. The house is quiet. Chores are being performed in various parts of the house.

An ungodly, high-pitched scream comes from the bathroom. I can hear the terror behind it. I know immediate action is required. There's a spider threatening a human.

I abandon the broom in my hand. I turn three times in place, transforming myself from chore-doing, comfy-clothes-wearing, every-day-citizen into the ass-kicking, name-taking Spider Wrangler.

I run into the bathroom, my two trusty steeds - basset and mutt - behind me. The human is pointing at her hand. In a voice so high the words barely sound English, she says, "It landed on my hand! It landed on my hand!"

My chest involuntarily puffs out. My hands land on my hips. My cape flaps in the breeze. "Where is it?" I ask, my voice echoing off the bathtub.

She points in a general direction, making high-pitched noises that cannot be decoded. But I'm the Spider Wrangler. I can use my senses to find the spider. After searching high and low, I ask again, "Where is it?"

"Right there," she says as she points. She is hysterical.

I see it. It's the size of a nickel and brown as an overripe banana. It's nasty, dirty looking. This spider wants to dance.

The spider and I make eye contact. I'm not one to take a life, but this spider is telling me it wants to bite every member of my family and drink a beer while watching the skin around the bites slowly die. I announce, chest out, hands on hips, "This spider is going in the toilet!"

The human, not bothering to hide her fear, says, "I have to clean the toilet!"

It's a good thing, as the Spider Wrangler, I always have a Plan B.

I bark out orders: Open the back door! Steeds, get out of the way! Spider, don't go anywhere! I run into the living room, retrieve a large piece of mail, and go back into the bathroom. Everyone clears out. It's just the two of us: Spider and Wrangler.

I hold the piece of mail down on the ground, offering the spider a chance to be the bigger person. He bares his teeth, says, "I'm not getting on that, Wrangler. You want me, you're gonna have to come get me!"

Oh, it's like that, motherfucker?

He cuts left, I lie the piece of mail down. He heads for the wall; I quickly slide the piece of mail down the wall, cutting off access. He starts to run behind the toilet; I lie the mail down in his path and he unknowingly climbs aboard. I take two steps; he launches off the mail. "Shit!" (As the Spider Wrangler I curse more than when I'm an average citizen.) I get him back onto the mail and step out into the hallway. He jumps off again. "You little fucker!" The human screams. She's frozen with terror. I take a quick look to see the backdoor isn't open. "Open the backdoor!" I say, my voice echoing down the hallway. The trusted steeds fly outside. The human is, I don't know what she's doing - she's standing at the backdoor making weird noises, like she's being pricked with a million pins. I use the piece of mail to try and flick the spider out the door.

Big mistake.

He lands behind the human's legs. He's making a getaway, using the human as cover. The human is on the verge of having a heart attack. She dances in place for a good long while, obstructing my view and approach. I use my left arm to inch her out of the way and get the little bastard back on the mail. In a combined effort, the human opens the screen door, I hold out the mail, and there stands the basset, right in the path of disposal. I take my eye off the spider for a second, look back down, and he's gone. I keep my cool, casually looking at the piece of mail, the basset, my clothes to see if, in one last vain attempt, the spider clung to any of these things to get back inside. I don't see him. My chest pops out. My hands land on my hips. I give the signal: "All clear!"

Shortly after, the human asks me if the spider rode back in on the basset. I tell her no; the basset is not the Trojan Horse.

Being the Spider Wrangler comes with great responsibility. The Spider Wrangler must speak with confidence, insist the spider is gone, and save the family at any cost.

Don't tell my wife I lost track of the spider. The gig will be up.