Thursday, April 29, 2010

Prostitutes and Common Courtesy

When I got married, my husband and I reached an agreement. I don't do trash. Not my thing. He doesn't clean the bathroom. Not his thing. Deal.

So now that he's gone the trash piles up until I can't stand it anymore and finally grow the balls to take it out. Now since I'm only one person, and I work full time, that takes a while. Long enough for me to forget whatever it is that I've put in there. I reached that point today (mostly because I did the litterbox and refuse to let my kitchen smell like cat shit, because that's apparently where I draw the line). I lifted the bag out of the trash can and holy fuck what the shit did I put in the garbage can?!? Did I somehow forget about a body that I cut up and threw out or what? It seriously took two hands to lift that damn thing, and I think I proved I'm not a total pussy after my day with the jackhammer at Habitat for Humanity. (Oh yeah, and that totally proves I have a heart. Take that! But I digress...) So I suck it up and start moving toward the door, when what can only be described as garbage spunk starts dripping down my leg. WTF?!? Can a bitch not even get the courtesy of a warning?? That's just rude, if you ask me... No manners at all.

Okay, one more thing to bitch about, and then I'm done, I swear. What the fuck is up with whoring it up to go to the gym?? I can understand if you're still wearing makeup from your day. I'm there at 6ish so I understand if you just got off work, blah blah blah. But seriously? Fake eyelashes??? Fake eyelashes are only excusable in certain situations:

1. Performances (dance, stage, etc) and maybe a super formal occasion
2. Halloween
3. Prostitution

This bitch walks in wearing leggings, a push up bra, and a super low cut, white (see through), v neck shirt. Oh and her head band is color coordinated to her bra and running shoes (which are pristine, btw. They were purchased for aesthetic value, not functionality). She gets on the elliptical for maybe 15 minutes, spends most of the time on her phone, then saunters back out. Are you kidding me? I'm sweating my ass off trying to lose weight and these bitches just throw up what they eat and pretend to work out. Whatever. I hope your esophagus disintegrates. Prostitute.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010


So since my husband was recalled and deployed, I'm discovering lots of new things. Mostly, however, these are things that I dislike.

Living alone? Yeah. Fuck that.

"Oh, but Katrina, you'll get to know yourself and have time to really discover who you are!"
Really?!? Shove it!

I'm mainly just creating a running list of shit I don't like about living alone. And at the top of that list? Yes, above taking out the trash (yes, I know, it's all my trash, shutthefuckup), is SPIDERS. Granted, I knew I hated spiders long before I lived alone, but why is it that when the hubbs is home, the spiders I find are baby daddy long legs in the bathtub. Seriously?

So the other night, I decide to take my laptop to bed with me and finish an episode of Lost (what what!!) there. Usually, when I make the journey from couch to bed, I call out and one or both of my cats follows me. Emmie starts to follow, but stops at the doorway and won't come all the way in. Evs, her loss... I continue watching and becoming increasingly confused (seriously, we're flashing forward now?!? wtf?!?) and she starts meowing. Really right now? I call her. She doesn't move. She's sitting in the doorway with her back to me. Still meowing. This goes on for another five minutes. It's odd, but so is she, so I disregard it. But she seriously won't shut the fuck up, so I grow impatient. I call her and finally get her to come over to me, but she doesn't get past two paws on the bed, back paws on the nightstand, staring at the door. She goes back into the doorway and resumes the incessant meowing. Either this is Poltergeist and I'm going to have to start throwing tennis balls into bright lights, or she needs me to change the litterbox before she shits on the floor. Fine. You win this round Cat.

I go and get a bag, turn on the hall light, and remove the lid to the litterbox. When I do this, a spider the size of the aforementioned tennis ball (okay, I might be exaggerating a smidge) and super mean and scary looking desperately clings to his web, and bounces over to the wall. I'm not even kidding right now, this thing looks like something out of Arachnophobia. I panic. The first instinct is to run into the living room, at which point I realize this spider is in the doorway to MY BEDROOM ohmygodIloseconsciousnessinthere so I realize I can't just flee. Or I'll seriously never sleep again. I find a shoe, and about seven smacks and untold amounts of profanity later, the spider is dead. I change the litterbox, vacuum up the spider remains and half the living room (maybe the other spiders will run in fear, like the cat?) and return to Lost. *sigh*

The boy cat, Zero, curled up by my feet (he knew I needed comfort in the post traumatic period after the attempt on my life). The girl laid down on the floor in front of the litterbox. I don't know if she was upset because I stole her kill, or was guarding my life. I've chosen to believe she was being a guard kitty, remaining vigilant in case the need arose to warn me of subsequent attacks.

I decided to go to sleep after so much ass kicking. I needed my rest for the next day when I would be building a house because I'm just. that. awesome.