Category Archives: nature hates me

Meet Suzanne Aka Crazy Eyes

I accidentally adopted a cat who is a psychopathic asshole.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Let me tell you how this travesty occurred.

I’ve been in the market for a new kitty for some time. For various reasons, each time I thought I’d found one, it fell through. You’d think kittens were gold the way I couldn’t get my greedy, ready-to-pet hands on one.

Finally, an animal shelter only 50 miles away posted on Facebook that they were “overflowing” with kitties.  I was ecstatic. They only wanted a bag of cat food in exchange for one kitten, spayed or neutered. I called them to verify this outrageous claim and was assured it was true.

They did not mention the ridiculous hoops you have to jump through in order to adopt a pet from a shelter.

My first stop was a pet store to get the aforementioned cat food and also stock up on other pet supplies and kitten needs. While I was there, I met a vaguely rough looking little black furball who was there visiting from another shelter. Though I liked her persistent attitude, I had a plan and I was determined to stick to it.

After getting lost and driving in circles for approximately 45 minutes, I finally found the shelter. They eagerly took my cat food and let me play with the kittens, but when I inquired about taking home a demure little grey lady, they informed me that I needed my other pets vaccination records, a letter from my veterinarian, and my left pinky toe to make the transaction complete.

I was heartbroken.

On my way home I decided to take another look at the kitties at the pet store on the off chance that their rules weren’t as rigorous and they had one who liked me.

As I walked into the store, the shelter people were putting her in a carrier. I held her and petted her and she crawled up around my neck like a cat scarf. I concluded that it was meant to be. Fate had led me to her, in Fate’s usual fucked up, roundabout way.

These shelter people were eager to find homes for their cats, and even tried to get me to take more than one. You’re welcome, Husband. I left with one cuddly kitty in a box, excited to share her sweetness with my family.

I was a little concerned that she did look rough – kind of like an alley cat, but she curled so sweetly around my neck that I decided it was because she had led a rough kitty life and in her new home she would no doubt thrive.

This is a crazy cat scarf.

This is a crazy cat scarf.

I had no idea that she would thrive at the expense of the rest of us. Now that we are home, she has shown her true colors.

She is a complete nutcase. She has terrible gas and farts in my lap with impunity.

I cannot write or draw or sew or do anything with my hands without being attacked.

She chews on me as if I were a piece of beef jerky.

Jesus Christ, Cat.

Jesus Christ, Cat.

She will NOT stay off the table, and she has cowed my other cat completely.  Suzanne eats first, she shits first, and she has first choice of napping area.

Crazy Eyes has taken over our home. Even my husband can’t stand against her, and every morning I find her sleeping on his face. I try to teach her right from wrong, but she refuses to learn. She chews on cords.  She sneezes in my face. She walks on wet paint and my computer keyboard. She ate the letter “d” off my laptop.

I flick water on her when she gets on the table and that seemed to work for awhile, but now when I do it, she just licks it off and goes about her business. On the table.

I think she knows I’m writing this because right now she is curled in my lap like the sweetest little thing you ever saw. She hasn’t bitten me once since I started typing. She may be reading my thoughts.

sleepy kitty, get out of my head

sleepy kitty, get out of my head



Ants Bite and Some Other Stuff

We had to take Thing 3 to have another set of blessed ear tubes put in again to give her some relief from the blasted recurrent ear infections.  Since we live 10 miles outside of Timbuktu, we had quite a drive ahead of us and decided to throw in some family time and make the dreaded trip into a mini-vacay.

We figured the kid wouldn’t remember the tubes, but she might remember that Mommy and Daddy took her to the zoo.

Except we didn’t even make it to the zoo.  (Probably a good thing, since animals are all perverts.) (Or maybe I’m the pervert.  Either way.)

Here are a few things I learned on our way — our long, long way filled with constant chatter from one or all three kids.

1.  Thing 2’s rendition of the Rice Krispies commercial was a bit disconcerting, since he fucked it up horribly.

“What?” he says over our laughter. “It’s crack, smack, Snapple, and pop, right?”

Um….no.  Also, are you on drugs?

2. Thing 3 is 5 years old and is turning into a smartass.  I believe she gets it from her father.

Thing 3:  *Rolls her eyes and sighs* What-EVER!

Thing 2:  Oh no, you’re turning into a woman!

Thing 3:  Your mom’s a woman.

So, my five-year-old is making “your mom” jokes, and I consider that a parenting win.  Even though technically I think I was just insulted.

3. When we finally reached our destination, we headed directly for the pool.  The kids and the husband swam while I found the cutest little patio area outside in the sun to smoke and read the paper.  I discovered that I love sitting quietly while my kids are entertained by something that is not me and is free swimming.

This Is How It's Done.

This Is How It’s Done.

4.  After the pool we had plans for the zoo, but as usual, my body betrayed me and we decided to rest and go to an arcade instead.  The kids had great fun blowing my money, and I found out that Thing 3 thinks I am “the best mommy she’s got” because I drive “TURBO fast” in the go-kart.  Hold your applause; we were the only ones on the track.

Getting ready to tear it up on some go-karts.

Getting ready to tear it up on some go-karts.

5. Then I learned that my gallbladder/heart/liver/something on my insides really does hate me and I almost had to go to the ER because I really know how to ruin have a good time.  I was up most of the night moaning in the bathtub because I felt like an invisible murderous asshole was stabbing me in the stomach.  Luckily for him he was invisible and possibly imaginary.

5.  I learned that I am able to drive a wheelchair about as well as a car, and by that I mean not well at all.  I ran into two people, a bed, a door, and a couple of walls before the wheelchair was confiscated.

6.  The term “ants in your pants” is very apt.  This actually happens and really does cause jiggling, jumping, and general insanity while you are being bitten.  On the ass.  In a parking lot.  I’m sure there is film somewhere of me frantically slapping my own ass and screaming bloody murder.

7.  Ant bites are huge.  I have one for each cheek, so I should know.

8.  I can catch a child’s milkshake vomit in a Wal-Mart sack with a hole in it while driving down the road and not spill any. Yes, I’d like a medal.

9.  My oldest child is an angel and will make someone very lucky one day.  (I actually already knew this one.)  We got home and that kid ordered me to bed, brought me a fan and a washcloth, and helped get the other kids settled.  He’s also adorable and a genius, but calm down ladies, he’s only 15.

10.  If you go to the doctor and check every box that says, “nearly every day” on their little questionnaire and then burst into tears, they are much nicer to you than usual. Today I went to the doctor and had a total meltdown.  And that was before they did an EKG “just to rule out heart problems” and the bastard came back “abnormal.”  Of fucking course it did.  Have I mentioned that my body hates me?

11.  If you have plans for the weekend in spite of the fact that you know you should rest, your doctor will schedule an abundance of tests for Saturday, on just about every internal organ you have.  Then the following week can be spent at cardiologists, gastroenterologists, psychiatrists, and other places well known for fun and games.

12.  If you leave town for two days, your renters might take that as the perfect opportunity to leave town themselves, only they might take all their stuff and not leave any rent money.  Anyone interested in a two bedroom in Timbuktu?


Bugs Are Giant Assholes.

Ticks are dicks.  Seriously.

Commonly known as the Vampire Asshat of the insect world, ticks feed off the blood of their innocent victims.  If you are not lucky enough to live in an environment where ticks, chiggers, snakes, and other horrible slithery-crawly things abound, let me give you a visual.

Actual size may vary.  Generally the size of a freckle, not a baseball as depicted above.

This guy is the neighbor who comes over uninvited, unannounced, irritates your pets, and makes you uncomfortable and twitchy.  This little creep latches on and sucks your blood.  Hello?  How is that not a vampire?  It is.  Just because it doesn’t sparkle is no reason to write off this tiny killer.

I’ve bitched written about my allergy to meat before.  Well, this is the little bastard that caused the allergy:

The Lone Star Tick.  The cruelest and most evil insect of them all.  The one that turns you…VEGAN.  *gasp*  *pause for shock and awe*  *nods head wisely but with visible sadness.*  *looks stoic and perhaps a bit romantic*

Right?!  This shit is just effing ridiculous.  (That may be the first time I’ve ever typed effing.  It doesn’t feel right.)

But I digress.  Here are the facts about this bitch ass tick who stole my steak:

1.  Little motherfuckers are found everywhere.  It is all over the US and in Australia and other countries where ticks are known to live.  My yard is a popular gathering place for ticks.  I believe it may be the Cabo of creepy things I’d rather live without.

2.  Everyone who gets bit by a Lone Star tick is not gong to get this allergy.  And it comes in different levels, kind of.  Because I have always been an overachiever, I am not fucking around with this allergy.  If I have to be allergic to mammals, I’m taking that shit all the way.  Ye-ah, I will WIN at allergies.  Yep.

3.  The allergy is Alpha-Gal IgE — it’s a reaction to a sugar-protein called Galactose-alpha-1,3-galactose.  Some people have struggled with it for over 20 years, but research has only been done on this allergy for about the last 5 years.  (Basically, no one knows shit yet, except keep Benadryl and an Epi-Pen handy so you won’t die.) has what little information there is on this allergy.

4.  The AG allergy made me allergic to anything that comes from a mammal, including milk and animal byproducts which are in EVERYTHING.  Yes, I am aware of how insane that sounds.  No, I am not making it up.

5.  Basically at this point the only things I can eat safely are fresh fruits and vegetables, along with chicken, turkey, and fish.  (I hate fish.)  (It’s growing on me.)

So, all this from a fucking tick?  The researchers think so.  Not many doctors even know about this yet, so it was hard to get the diagnosis until my blood tests came back positive for beef and pork allergies.

My doctor looked me square in the face after I described an allergic reaction with trouble breathing (anaphylaxis) and asked me if I knew that sometimes a “hard poop can make you break a sweat and feel like something is wrong.”

Oh no he didn’t.  (Yes, he actually did.  Fucker.)  I guess at 34 I know the difference between taking a shit and not being able to breathe.

Some days I handle it better than others.  Some doctors say it will go away in time (my allergist said possibly 5 to 7 years without any new bites) but some say it won’t.  I just got three new bites this weekend, while wearing bug spray and walking in a yard that had been treated for ticks.

And, I just realized, like right this second, that humans are mammals too so there goes any chance of survival if I were ever in some sort of situation where I had to eat a person to live.  Fuck.

Do you have any weird allergies?  Has your doctor ever treated you like you were a fucking five-year-old?  Do you think you could handle a diet like mine, or are you already a super healthy eater without being forced into it?  What are your thoughts on cannibalism?  (J/K, please don’t eat anybody.)

Life is Mean and My Cat is a Vampire. Apparently.

Lately things have been yucky and stinky and vomity (this is my blog and I say vomity is a word) and snowy and for fuck’s sake I can’t take it anymore!

Okay, that’s probably an exaggeration.  The ‘can’t take it anymore part’ anyway, because really, my options are limited.

Let me fill you in.  So, of course there was the unfortunate gynecological incident.  Then we all got this terrible, no good stomach flu that almost killed us.  I’m exaggerating again.   No one was near death.  But it was gross.  Very, very disgusting.

Then we all got colds.  Bad ones.  With snot.  Lots of it.  Then we got the stomach virus AGAIN.

During these bouts of sickness I was, of course, having migraines because as you all know, my body hates me.

So, now we are finally, finally all feeling at least half-human and all the things I haven’t accomplished in the past month have grown into this gigantic pile of Things Stephanie Has Fucked Up and I’m really afraid it’s going to topple and bury me beneath it.

Now I’m going to leave you with a random sampling of Shit My Family Says to Me and hopefully I’ll be more coherent and less whiny next week.


Thing 3:  The cat has a hole in her butt.  I just saw it.

Husband:  Uh…

Me:  Um…

Thing 3:  Don’t worry, I didn’t put anything in it.

grumpy cat no


Thing 2:  (Loudly, at dinner with extended family) I don’t even know why we celebrate Easter.

Me:  *puts head in hands*  Oh.  Dear.  God.

*shocked silence*

Thing 2:  *Very quietly*  I mean, I know why it’s a holiday, Jesus and stuff, but I just don’t get the rabbit.

Who does, really?

Who does, really?


Me:  Don’t be ridiculous, I’m awesome.

Thing 1:  Yes.  If by “awesome” you mean hard to love.


Husband:  I’m not here to judge.

Me:  *reflects silently*  I think I am.

Husband:  Oh, I know.  I think you’re judging for the both of us.

Me:  Haha!  Right?  I’ll handle this, don’t worry.

Husband:  You should tell people that.  Say “I’m judging for two.” and rub your belly.  Then when they say, “Oh, are you expecting?” you can say, “Yeah, I’m expecting you to fuck up.”


Thing 1 to Husband:  How did we wind up with this version?  We need an upgrade.

Me:  *Sputters*  What?! You’re think you can just trade me in for a new model?

Husband:  Mom two-point-whoa.

*Both nod.*


Thing 3:  Mom!  Momma!  Leeloo is a vampire!

Me:  Leeloo is not a vampire.  Leeloo is a cat.

Thing 3:  Then why does she have pointy teeth and sneak around at night?

Me:  …

Thing 3:  *Triumphant*  Because she’s a vampire.

And This Is Why I’m A Cat Person

I’ve been trying to come up with a delicate way to introduce this topic, but I have come to the conclusion that there just isn’t one.


I once suffered attempted ear-rape by two large Doberman Pinschers.  Simultaneously.

There.  I said it.  My name is Stephanie and I am scared of large dogs, specifically ones who look like they might try to hump my face.

Like this, only two, and on my face.

Like this, only two, and on my face.

I got myself into this unfortunate situation by going to a party with a couple of girlfriends.  It was a friend-of-a-friend kind of thing, and I only knew about four people there.  So, since we all know how great I am at chatting up strangers, I had too many a few drinks.

At one point during the night we were all gathered in the living room.  I was sitting on the floor towards the front of the room, just minding my own business, when I felt a weight on my right shoulder.  I was turning my head to investigate when I felt pressure on my left shoulder.

That’s right.  Whichever way I turned, all I could see was furiously pumping Doberman crotch.

I couldn't see their faces, but I suspect they looked just like this.

I couldn’t see their faces, but I suspect they looked just like this.

I remember screaming and trying to scramble awkwardly away, but they were pretty heavy, and there was the added obstacle of trying desperately not to be touched by a dog penis.

I also remember a LOT of laughter.  You’re welcome, assholes.

The dogs’ owner finally got the beasts contained, but it was too late.  I was scarred for life.  To this day I try to keep away from large dogs, especially males.  Apparently, my animal magnetism is just out of this world.

Please, share your story of humiliation at the hands (ha) of man’s best friend.  Surely we’ve all been leg-humped a time or three.  What else have these furry, four-legged perverts been up to that I should watch out for?

5 Reasons It’s Okay To Have Rogue Snakes Loose In Your Home

This is me, looking on the bright side.  Don’t blink.

Snakes.  Snakes are lovely.

Snakes eat mice.

Snakes are…snakes.

I’m trying this bullshit thing called cognitive behavioral therapy, because as I’ve been told a hundred fucking times, what you think is how you feel.  So I am going to feel homicidal GREAT about the snake INFESTATION going on in my home IN THE DEAD OF WINTER.


And I'm okay with this.  Really.

And I’m okay with this. Really.  Also, I really need to dust.  Don’t judge me.  I have snakes.

Five Reasons This Horror Nightmare Guest Is A-Okay:

1.  You can save money on your heating bill in an effort to make your home less homey for heat-seeking death worms reptiles.

2.  You can break your hip tone your thighs by clomping around your house in steel-toed boots and jumping a lot.

3.  Your kids will get really good at “I Spy” and this is a skill all children should have.

4.  You can finally make use of the ridiculous amount of swords you own.

5.  You can help the local economy by paying someone exorbitant sums of money a worthwhile fee to crawl around in your attic and say, “Ye-ah, where there’s one there’s usually a bunch more.”  This is helpful to know.

6.  You can save money on your water bill when an asshole a well-meaning friend tells you that the snakes are probably getting in through the plumbing so you won’t be using your bathroom.  Ever.  Again.

I know, that was actually six reasons, but I am just so good at this positivity thing that I decided to keep going.  Also, I am still in the market for a mongoose.

I refuse to believe I’m the only one.

I sleep with a white noise machine.  I used to use a big box fan,  but my husband would get pissy when I would point it at him because I didn’t want to be fanned, I just wanted to hear it fanning.

“White Noise” is what the machine is set to, because I’m afraid “Rain Forest” would make me wet the bed, and I’m a grown-ass woman.

I have to pee now just looking at that.

The noise machine is on a timer and shuts off after an hour.  Sometimes (a lot of times) it takes me longer than that to fall asleep.  After I’ve reset it two or three times, the “white noise” starts sounding different, like a beat, or words, or just sounds being repeated over and over instead of just the shhhhhhhhhh sound it is supposed to be making.

Today my husband and I were lazing in bed ( it was an extremely rare quiet moment in this madhouse) and he asked if I’d ever seen the movie “White Noise.”

bing images

bing images

Me:  Yes!  The one with the TVs.  Creepy!

Him:  I can’t believe that sound helps you sleep.  (Probably thinking about last week when he left REDRUM on the bathroom mirror in steam, and when I got out of the shower I screamed and ran outside and wouldn’t go back in.  This is why we live in the middle of nowhere.  Because he’s an ass, and I often panic before I’m even dressed.)

Me:  I know.  And it’s weird how it changes.  The other night it was saying something over and over.

Him: ?

Me:  I don’t know, just words.  It was something with a “D,” maybe de-code, de-luge, Den-ver.  I don’t remember.

Him:  Jesus.

Me:  What?  It’s like when you are surrounded by chickens and it sounds like they are all saying your name.

Him:  *Snort*  That has only ever happened to you.

Me:  What?  No.

Him:  Yes.

Me:  Really?  That’s just me?

Him:  Falls asleep laughing while I lie there and try to force the crazy voice inside the noise maker to communicate with me again.  It didn’t work.

Note:  My family used to raise chickens.  I seriously wore headphones and carried my Walkman (yes, Walkman) because thousands of chickens all buck-buck-bawk-bawking at the same time would somehow coalesce into “Steph.  Stephanie.  Steph.”  And that is really fucking creepy.

I refuse to believe I’m the only one this happens to.  I’m not that crazy.


Half-Assed Holidays

I feel like I should write about the holidays, but I don’t really want to.  So I’m going to half-ass it, and tell you a few things that happened, and then move on to the important stuff, like sleeping and chickens.


1.  I may have inadvertently caused my ferret to have a nervous breakdown.  Ferrets sleep 18 or more hours a day.  I thought my ferret loved red things, because he’s always stealing anything red and hiding it.  So I got him a red toy for Christmas and hung it in his cage.

He didn’t sleep for 24 hours until he killed it.  Could not rest until the evil red intruder was destroyed.  When I finally noticed what was happening, he was hissing and twitching like a ferret on crack.  (Or how I would imagine that.  My ferret does not do crack, so I don’t really know.)

Similar to this, only more crazy eyes.


2.  I drank all my wine on Christmas Eve, which caused me to accidently insult my cousin.

Her:  You liked me when I was a kid.  (Meaning, you liked me, as opposed to my brothers.)

Me:  Whatever!  I like you now!   (Meaning, of course I like you!  Oh shit, that’s not what you meant.)

Her:  Wow.

Me:  Err.  Really!  I like you all the time.  Anyone thirsty?


3.  I drank all my wine on Christmas Eve, which caused me to have no wine on Christmas Day.  To remedy this, I sent my husband to the store to get another three more bottles.  Don’t judge me, Christmas is hard.

When he went up to the register they said, “I’m sorry sir, we don’t sell alcohol on Jesus’ birthday.”  Oops.  My bad.  (Sorry, Jesus and embarrassed husband.)

No, Santa, not today.


3.  Cracker Barrel poisoned me somehow and I had an allergic reaction in Wal-Mart, which made me really confused, and I told my daughter to either get the microwave or don’t, we gotta go.  She’s 4.  There was no microwave.  I’m pretty sure they thought I had found more wine.


4.  I ate half a pound cake for breakfast one morning.  As I was on the last bite my daughter wanted some, and in what was not one of my finer moments, I told her it had butter in it.  Because she hates butter, and I didn’t want to share.  That was not a lie, because  I am 95% percent sure pound cake has butter in it.  Mom-Of-The-Fucking-Year.  That’s me.


5.  New Year’s Eve.  I’m not going into that.  But I do want to quote my husband.  “Feel free to put some pants on and join us.”  Again, he said, “Feel free to put some pants on and join us.”  He’s just lucky I wasn’t feeling well, because that sounds like a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.



Ice, Ice, Baby

In 2009, this happened.  January 25, 2009 to be exact.  That was also my due date.  Since this gorgeous disaster caused us to lose electricity for more than a week, I’m thankful my daughter came two weeks early.  I think it’s pretty safe to say that I wouldn’t have handled a home birth well.

Yes, it was pretty.

Yes, it was pretty.

Imagine, if you will, having a newborn child and two other small children.  In an ice storm.  With no heat, no water, no electricity, and most definitely no sleep.  And No.Way.Out.

No way out.  None.

No way out. None.

Let me just go ahead and admit that I can be a little high-strung.

I did not handle it well when the power went out.  Or the days after that when we camped out in my mother’s living room near her fireplace.  Or when I developed mastitis and thrush in my left breast and feeding my daughter felt like lighting myself on fire every two hours.

There was a lot of crying.

The baby cried some too.

According to the weather people, we are under a Winter Storm Warning.  I haven’t been that concerned, because I don’t have a newborn and we have our own fire now.

But then my husband went to the store to stock up, only to find out that some motherfuckers have bought all the Coca-Cola.

Now I’m panicking.  How does a store run out of Coke?  I don’t even think that is legal. 

Is this the apocalypse? 

Snakes. I don’t like them.

If you don’t live in the middle of nowhere, you may not be aware that deer and other wildlife have trails; certain paths that they follow, to water or possibly gatherings where they plot my demise.

I am beginning to think snakes also have trails, and that my house must sit right in their path.  Or the other animals elected snakes as their assassins.  I really don’t know much about snakes.  I do know that I don’t like them, and I REALLY don’t like them in my house.

About 10 years ago I (briefly) rented the house that we bought last year.  At that time I was the single parent of two boys.  The baby woke me up and I stumbled into the kitchen for a bottle.  In my defense, it was dark, and I was mostly still asleep.  So I saw what my brain registered as a really stretched out ponytail holder on the floor, and I (stupidly) reached down to get it.  The fucker moved and I woke all the way up pretty quick.  It was about a 4 foot long black snake.  In my kitchen.  Luckily for me, its head was caught in a mousetrap, so it didn’t really have a lot of options.  I called my mom and she appeared magically, as she is wont to do in my times of need, wearing boots and bearing a shovel.

Then I moved.  Like, fucking immediately.

Fast forward 10 years, and we (stupidly) bought this house.  Last fall we had approximately three unwelcome guests.  Baby copperheads.  In my fucking house.

After I finished having a nervous breakdown, I liberally applied glue traps all over the house.  I made my husband pull up all the trim, even though we had remodeled before we moved in, and fill up every hole we could find.  I work from home, and for a time I sat at my desk inside a circle of glue boards so that nothing could get me.

Now it is fall again, and apparently this is snake baby-time.  Two weeks ago I was laying on the couch when my four-year-old walked up and asked, “What is that?” pointing at a spot in the floor between us.  “That” was a snake stuck to a glue trap.  She may have learned a new word that day.  This snake was dead already and my husband wasn’t home, so I called on my Super Mother Powers and somehow got the damn thing out to the porch.  Where I completely lost my shit and began beating the glue trap, sticky side and snake side down, on my porch.  I did this until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore.  It’s still there.  Glue traps are very sticky.

Last night it was raining and sometimes when it rains we have a leaky spot behind the T.V.  So right before bed I went to have a look, just in case.  This is what I saw:

Are you fucking kidding me?

So, I did what anyone would do.  I called my mom again.  This time the snake was still alive and, though well and thoroughly stuck, was trying to strike.  We managed to get it outside, which was really hard because I refused to let my feet touch the floor and had to climb on furniture all the way through the house.

After we took care of that bastard, I convinced myself that there were no more because my glue trap defense is working perfectly.  Then I put out every glue board I had (about 12).  There are probably close to 50 glue boards hidden all over my house at this point.  Even I don’t know where they all are.

I’m concerned.  Fall is just beginning, and we’ve already had two invaders.  I need more glue traps, and maybe some fire.

I think there is an animal conspiracy.  I believe the squirrels started it, and they’ve coordinated the whole mess.  They want me gone.  This could get really ugly.

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