Things I Cannot Teach My Cat

1. It is neither friendly nor loving for you to stick a paw in my open mouth while I am sleeping. And while we're on the subject of my face ...

2. I understand that you want to sleep with me because it makes you feel safe and loved. However, I like to breathe while I am sleeping because that makes me feel like I'm not going to die. Please stop laying on my face. No matter how happily you purr, there is a chance that I will suffocate. If I suffocate, I cannot feed you. This will make both of us unhappy.

3. While I am on the toilet, I would greatly prefer if you did not a) try to get in my lap or b) stand on the counter and put your paws on my head, peering over me as though you are the captain of a ship staring out into the horizon. These are both off-putting.

4. The bubbles in my bubble bath are fascinating to you. I understand. I enjoy them as well. If you put your whole face in them and breathe in, you will sneeze. This will upset you. We do not have to relearn this lesson EVERY TIME I take a bubble bath.

5. Your tail is attached to you. That is actually why it is called "YOUR tail". No matter how sneaky you try to be, no matter how stealthy you are, or how small a space you chase it in, you will never get any closer to it than you already are.

6. Your mortal enemies, the squirrels, are outside. You are inside. You will never get outside. Attempting to tunnel through a glass window will not aid you in your Squirrel Eradication Plan. The squirrels know this. They are taunting you. When they go low, go high.

7. Your humans love reading with you cuddled up in their laps. That is wonderful. Your humans cannot read if you climb between them and their book and bat them every time they try to turn the page. They love this a whole lot less.

8. You may have noticed that you like to change positions as you sleep. I also enjoy doing so. If you are laying on my person and I need to change positions, it is likely because you are cutting off my circulation and I am about to lose a leg. Because I find my legs to be useful, I will likely shift. This is not to be considered a personal insult that involves retaliatory action such as squawking, attacking said leg through the covers, or sticking a paw in my mouth.

9. You do not belong in the refrigerator or the freezer. I understand that you think you do, but you do not.

10. When I am in the kitchen trying to do something like "make a meal for the humans" and you are irritated because you are dissatisfied with the brand new food I just put in your bowl, getting underfoot will only make you angrier because I will inevitably step on you. This will be unintentional, though I know that you do not care. Please stop doing this as it is terrible for everyone.

It's a good thing she's cute.

That's It. Period.

I was going to start this post with, "Gentlemen, you may want to look away because I'm going to talk about menstruation" but then I realized that very notion is the impetus for this post. So hang on to your hats, y'all, because I'm about to give some real talk about periods.

As (hopefully) everyone knows, people who are born biologically female will likely eventually have a period. That's a thing. That's how the uterus works. Eggs get released, the uterine line thickens thinking "Oh boy! We're gonna have a baby!" and then the egg doesn't get fertilized so the uterus sheds the lining. It's actually not a huge deal, except for the fact that it can sometimes be painful, annoying, and somewhat messy. Big old whoop, right? A body doing what it's supposed to do.

So why do we treat it like it's secret and somehow shameful? I quizzed some of my biologically female friends* who are also members of the menstruation club and we came to the following conclusions:

• We have all been at work and needed either a pad or a tampon, tried to make said pad or tampon INVISIBLE upon retrieval and also attempted to tuck it away while walking to the bathroom. 
• If you have pockets, hide it in the pocket as unobtrusively as possible. Try to look completely innocent while you're doing this by somehow making a face that says, "Why NO, I would NEVER have a tampon in my pocket. What a CRAZY notion!"
• If you do NOT have pockets, but have long sleeves, try to hide the tampon or pad in your sleeve by squinching your sleeve down over your hand and holding it there, again making the "NOPE, no tampon here" face.
• You could bring your purse to the bathroom with you, but that's pretty much the same as announcing "GUESS WHAT IT'S PERIOD TIME" and no one wants to do that.
• If your period is making a surprise visit (and isn't THAT fun), and you have to ask a coworker for a pad or tampon, you will WHISPER your request as quietly and ashamedly as possible.
• After using the restroom, dispose of your feminine hygiene product of choice in a ninja-esque style by trying to cover it up with paper towels or toilet paper, so no one can see the evidence of your non-crime. 
• When you are in pain because of menstrual cramps, smile big and try to look pretty. If you cannot pretend that you are not in pain, and someone asks what's wrong, you should lie. Unless it's another period-having person, in which case you may quietly whisper what's wrong and then ask for a painkiller. 
• You can never, ever, ever tell a non-period having person about your period, because they will then blame all of your emotions on it, as though that's the only reason you ever have emotions. This will make you want to stab them, which will also be blamed on your period and not on the fact that the person you stabbed was being an asshole. 

We also came to the following consensus: this pisses us off. 

Where does it come from? Is it a holdover from separating the boys from the girls and having the sex talk? Why can't the boys and the girls have that talk together, by the way? All separating everyone does is make bodies seem scary, when let's face it: biology is not scary. Biology CLASS was occasionally a bit frightening when it came to things like dissecting an eyeball, but actual human biology, aka your body's going to do some stuff and you need to deal? Not scary. JUST LIFE.

I'm not going to be ashamed because my body is doing something it's supposed to do. So while I'm not going to make a banner for my office announcing my period, I'm also not going to hide maxi pads in my sleeves anymore, either.  It's simply ridiculous. 

That's it. 

Period.

*I understand that this is an awkward phrase, but I want to separate biology from gender, which is different.

Rewind: Turkey Day Part Four -- The Reckoning

I am going on vacation in a week and I am BUSY, y'all, so I'm going to be reposting some of my more popular pieces. This piece originally posted on 11/28/13 (and had some companion pieces: Part One, Part Two, and Part Three). Enjoy! I'll be back in a few weeks!

Turkey Day Part Four: the Reckoning

I

After all of the advice and instruction, I went with... Well, I still don't know for sure. I have roasting bags (in case I go for that) and tinfoil (for tenting, in case I don't) and a baster (which I do or don't need depending on who you ask). I have lemons and onions and rosemary to put in the cavity. I have herbed butter to put under the skin (the idea of which makes me whisper "it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again").

I have four cookbooks, two magazines, and a printout from the Butterball website on my counter.

I woke up at 6:30 thinking about stock. Two recipes (and a friend) said I need it. But I don't have any. 

I've also realized I don't have any dessert-type noms and if you think my brain can cope with the notion of making anything else right now, you are crazy. But then, so am I, because apparently I  am going to the grocery store.

II

Everything seems more doable when the wine rack is fully stocked. Everytime I walk past it, I swear it winks at me. "Relaxxxx. I can toooootaaallly help you with this." (It sounds like the surfer dude turtles in Finding Nemo.)

Anyway.

I don't feel good about my trip to the grocery store. I mean, the nice people shouldn't have to be at work. That's crappy. But then again, they looked bored, so ... I don't know.

Maybe after I finish my coffee I'll start tackling this beast.

III

Or I could just order Chinese food.

IV 

No, I'm going to cook it. 

V

Everyone who told me that turkey is easy is a lying asshole.

Here's what happened: I took the turkey out of its shrink wrap and discovered this mystifying bit of hard plastic holding the feet together.

No one had mentioned this, ever. In all of my turkey talk, not one person ever said, "oh and it will be wearing plastic shoes. Like Barbie. Only, you know, not."

However. Everyone and some of their uncles was all "get the neck and gizzards out! That's yucky! Can't cook with those in!" so I thought -- rationally -- that Barbie needed to lose her footwear and got out the scissors. 

Yeaaaaah that didn't work. I don't know how that's attached but, even though the feet were released, the plastic was firmly anchored in.

So -- cursing to myself -- I filled the sink with cold water thinking, I'll thaw it out.

Nope.

Oh, and everyone who was all "the gizzards and such are in a bag?" YOU LIE. There was no bag. There was what looked like the leavings of a serial killer stuffed into my turkey. I didn't know if I should keep wrestling with that plastic bit or call in CSI. It was nightmareish.

So I did what any rational Yellie would do: I called my mom.

"This? Is a fucking nightmare!" I said, not at all dramatically.

"What?"

I explained the shoes and the icky. She said, "oh. You just ... Leave the shoes on."

I looked at my turkey. "What? I needed to take the Ickers out because they were in a bag but plastic shoe tie things are okay? I don't understand this and, fuck it, I'm not doing it."

"Yes you are."

"Might as well. Can't suck less."

So I cut off what I could see of the plastic, grimly reached in and yanked out the Ick, and went to work. Quartered lemons, stuffed 'em in the cavity. Chopped up an onion and stuffed that in too. Rosemary sprigs -- in you go. Pulled the skin away from the breasts and slid my hand in. I thought, "It's like a glove!" And then thought "I am going to be in therapy forever."

Under the skin: butter. More lemon. On the skin: olive oil. Rosemary. Salt and pepper.

Poured stock in the roasting pan, added lemon and onion and rosemary to THAT, and picked it up to put in the (preheated) oven.

And that was when my roasting pan broke.

"Fuuuuuuuuuucccckkkkk!" I said to the cat, who was keeping a curious but safely distant eye on the whole thing. And then I just got MAD. "Cook a turkey, they said! It's easy they said!" 

The handle on the roasting pan listed uselessly to the side. Mocking me.

"I was in O.M., pan. Screw you." I got a cookie sheet out and put it underneath. It barely fit but no matter.

TurkeyZilla is in the oven.

And I need a drink.

VI

Note: if you're gonna baste, even though your mom told you not to bother, try not to melt one of your silicone potholders when sliding the oven rack out. 

But if you DO happen to do that? It would be a good time to open that wine.

VII

Second basting. Managed not to fill the house with the acrid smell of melted silicone. Have no idea if the meat thermometer is touching the thigh bone or not (it's not supposed to. I don't think) so I'm hoping the pop up timer is a thing that works? Or something?

I'm also hoping I can get that thing out of the oven without spilling molten lava cooking liquids over myself, what with the "broken roasting pan" issue. That will NOT make for a festive holiday, and I don't want to have to explain my folly in the ER. Next year? I'll buy a real roasting pan.

Maybe.

More wine, anyone?

VII

After four hours in the oven, the juices in the pan seemed like they needed to be siphoned off a bit. Which wouldn't be a problem because I have a baster, but which was a problem due to clumsiness.

That's okay. My entire kitchen needed to be scrubbed down anyway. Probably.

On the other hand? The pan juices smell so amazing that I'm almost sorry that I'm not making gravy. ALMOST.

VII

Is it done?

VIII

I think it's done. Maybe?

IX

I'm taking it out.

X

I hope it's done. 

I hope it's not TOO done.

XI

Holy shit. It's delicious.

I have no idea how this happened, and I have no idea what I'm doing with all of this turkey. 

But.

I do have a notion that I need to thank some people for their advice. So, in no particular order, thanks and big hugs to:

Charlene Hayes, Jodie Coward, Jessica Brodeur, Julie Rowe, Linda Campbell, Kristen Flink, Tricia Finch, Dot Winchell, Helene Harriman, Kelly Tipping, Neha Vanscoy, Shilo Fiel, John Perham, Matt Bemis and anyone and everyone else who offered advice and encouragement along the way (or invited me to eat with them and avoid the horror). 

You guys are awesome. 

And Martha Stewart can kiss my ass.

Omnomnom.

Adulting, Part 8973463746

I'm finally, at forty, starting to get some of this being a grown-up stiff down. For example, I now recognize that Diet Coke is NOT actually the same thing as drinking water. * Also, I totally understand that putting vegetables on pizza does not make it a salad, and that wine is NOT just liquid fruit. I also have gotten better about making a list before I go to the grocery store** and then actually buying the things on the list so that I have things to make meals and not just a random assortment of unrelated foodstuffs and six bottles of wine.

I know! ADULTING!

There are, of course, the things I am still terrible at, like throwing away magazines after I read them. What am I keeping them for? I HAVE NO IDEA. But they're still in a big stack in our book room. I'm still afraid of the dentist and bad about going to the doctor; I'm getting better about this, but I'm not super good at it.

Anyway.

Yesterday was grocery day, so I planned out meals and then we went shopping. I was making pasta for dinner (yay gluten free pasta).

OR SO I THOUGHT.

Because in the afternoon, The Fella said, "Do you want to get Chinese for dinner? I know that's not the plan, but ..."

Let's see ... did I want delicious Chinese food? Do little birdies chirp in trees? Damn straight I wanted Chinese food!

Oh, but the pasta. It was kind of a complicated thing to make on a weeknight. Humph, what to do.

And that's when the adult-y part of my brain kicked in. "You could make it today," it whispered. "You could make it today and then tomorrow it will be all ready! You'll just have to heat it."

Okay, so here's the deal: I KNOW that this is a thing people do, this cooking things in advance. I believe there are entire television shows devoted to the concept. It's just not a thing I do, because I am organized, but I'm not THAT organized. That's, like, Martha Stewart organized, and I'm only at Yellie-level.

But I did it. I made today's dinner yesterday. It's kind of exciting, like the dinner fairy came, only I'M the dinner fairy. IT'S ME! WOOHOO!

Now if only I could take care of that pile of magazines ...


*What? Weight Watchers used to count it as being the same thing.)

**Well, USUALLY