I Think, Therefore I am Weird

When you have a mind that races at a million miles a minute, it is inevitable your brain will land on some very bizarre thoughts.  I would argue that’s how some of the greatest scientific innovations of all time came to be. And the weird ones, too, of course. 

How else would we have figured out that only a portion of people can smell the sulfur from the amino acids in asparagus in our pee? It obviously took someone going, “Hey, wait a sec, my wee smells a bit off….”

To vocalize some of the weirder thoughts we have, we have to have some courage, but in the name of science, we should totally do it. For instance, during college, one of our senior RAs, Ryan, took a lot of courage to blurt out in the middle of our RA training what I think to be a crazy but very true discovery. One morning, as we were eating breakfast, he said, “Did you ever notice that, after drinking coffee, your pee smells like Sugar Smacks cereal?”

Right now, I bet there are quite a few light bulbs going off in the heads of a few readers.

I also bet that there are quite a few coffee makers brewing up some coffee right now in the name of science.

It’s totally true, by the way. 

With my crazy, all-over-the-place mind, I tend to have an average of 964 random thoughts that could lead to scientific breakthroughs and another 1,485 about things that I know science has covered but I’m curious to know what led to the breakthrough. And don’t even get me started on the origin of slang. I have read so many articles and books on how things came to be.

I know that, language-wise, we have Shakespeare to thank for quite a bit. Although, I’m pretty sure he has had nothing to do with some of the more weird slang I’ve heard. The one that was stuck in my head today, which caused me to think of this post in the first place, is the term swamp butt, also known as swamp ass. 

For the record, this came to be after walking around in the sweltering heat and seeing way too many people who were sitting down and needed to learn how to wear clothing more appropriate for the heat and bring a change of clothing for when they started to sweat through their first pair of pants/shorts.

I must also add, that I made the mistake of Googling “swamp butt,” and learned that it’s also called “monkey butt,” which is cracking me up to no end. Plus, there are some hilarious articles out there, including one with the line “dusting your huevos in cornstarch.” I swear to Jeebus I’m not making this up.

This is where I must emphasize the fact that sometimes we think of things that take courage to admit we think. I’m pretty sure that anyone who can smell the sulfur from asparagus in pee thinks about it every single time they smell it (at least I do), just as I do when I smell the aroma of Sugar Smacks in my wee after having coffee. And I don’t just get caught up thinking about the origin of swamp butt. Plenty of other words have left me wondering who the heck thought up their bizarre origins. Words like falcon punch, douchebag, and Netflix neck.

But I am amused easily.

Literally or Figuratively?

If any of you have been following my Facebook or Twitter today, you may know a little bit about where this story is going, but now you’re about to get the full story. Be prepared to laugh your toukus off. 

Actually, I recommend you take a quick break to go to the bathroom. That way you don’t laugh so hard you pee.

You good? No? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

This morning was just like any other Monday morning. I was behind the wheel of my car, speeding down the highway, listening to a podcast. Just like any other Monday. When I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw movement, I didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary.

Until I realized that the movement wasn’t in the mirror. It was on the mirror.

A spider was busy circling the outer rim of the mirror. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die. I wanted to set my car on fire. All I could do was say, “Don’t wreck the car; don’t wreck the car; don’t wreck the car.” 

It took every ounce of willpower in my body to keep the car moving and not drive it into the concrete divider in the median while trying my best to keep an eye on that eight-legged monstrosity (did I mention that he was the size of a dime?). I watched him circle the mirror twice, then climb onto the ceiling where he promptly disappeared.

Not long after that, when I got to work, I offered a quick compromise to the spider via Twitter.

Ok, Spider, I’m going to set my car keys on the seat and slowly back away. It’s all yours. Please don’t kill me.

I just wish I could say that this is where this comical story ends, but when your name is Minday, that’s never the case.

As I was walking into the building, my stomach decided to let me know just how scared it had been by the spider. It growled a warning that I only a few minutes before sh!t would literally get worse. Yeah, I literally had the sh!t scared out of me by the spider. 

That is not a joke.

But later in the day. I did joke. Starting at about 4, the jokes began to flow on Twitter.

So…anyone want to come battle the spider residing in my car? The reward will be knowing that I can actually sleep at night.

The spider is as big as a small grapefruit and answers to the name Jerry. He does speak, too. #imaybeexaggerating

Also the spider does not fear fire. In fact, he took my lighter and is taunting me with it. #stillexaggerating

My cat eats spiders, but in order to get her, I need to find a way to get home. Jerry says he’ll drive. #notsureitrustaspidertodrive

Jerry has offered to show me his driving record. He pulled out a little spider wallet. It’s got a Spider-Man design on it. #wierdlycute

As kind as Jerry is being, I just can’t get past the fact he’s a spider. I also can’t get close to him. #skinisliterallycrawling

How do you politely kill a spider? #askingforafriend #itsnotforjerryiswear

On the drive home, I had a brief scare. While sharing the story with my sister (who howled with laughter by the way), I felt a tickling on my leg and began screaming. My sister laughed even harder as I swiped at my leg to make sure that it was only my jeans and not an arachnid trying to dig its way into my flesh. It was just my jeans. I know.

There were no spider sightings. I did threaten to leave Nevaeh in the car for an hour or two just to be on the safe side, but I didn’t know if that would be frowned upon or not. 

Is it?

Why’s Everybody Always Picking on Me?

I’m pretty convinced that there is a tattoo on my forehead that everyone but me can read. It’s big and clearly shouts, “PICK ON ME!”

Seriously, why else would I always end up being the target of everyone’s pranks?

Ever since I was a wee girl, my siblings would pull various stunts that would emphasize my clumsiness, leave me red in the face or result in my screaming and flailing about in terror. And then my friends started joining in. Before long, I just learned to expect that, at least once a week, something will happen to scare the bejeebers out of me.

Brandy, my sister, is the undisputed master of scaring Mindy.

Don’t get me wrong, others have scared me. For instance, one of my coworkers when I worked in the housing office in college, would always try to scare me when I would be walking about campus in the middle of the night. Her best was the night we saw The Blair Witch Project. As my roommate and I walked back to our room, my coworker hid around the corner, waiting for our approach. When she jumped out, I nearly peed myself in terror. The scream probably woke up everyone on campus that night.

My little brother, Allen, tries pretty often too. He always liked to hang outside of the bathroom door and scare me as I walked out after taking a shower. I’d then chase him down the hallway on trembling legs, trying to punch him for leaving me quaking in fear.

But Brandy is a woman who spends her days plotting how to scare people. And she scares anyone and everyone. Ask her husband why he’s terrified of being in dark spaces with her or why her daughters hate the walk from their bedroom to the living room.

Sometimes Brandy’s scares are unintentional, like when she says something to me when I’m in the middle of some task, like laundry, and because I think I’m alone, the sound of her voice results in me clinging to the ceiling.

Another innocent scare happened tonight as we drove home from Target. I turned a corner to pull onto the highway, and Brandy commented on a hitchhiker she saw. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed him standing on the corner, leaning out into the lane with his thumb held high. When I saw him, I screamed bloody murder and yanked the steering wheel to the left, trying to pull away from him so I didn’t run him over. I actually reacted in fear so badly that I pulled a muscle in my chest. Sad, huh?

But the number of intentional scares Brandy has initiated far outweigh the number of innocent ones.

You know how I mentioned Allen would lurk outside the bathroom and scare me? Brandy has scared me after knocking on the door. How? She’ll hide, so I’m confused when I answer the door, then she’ll jump out and scream. I once punched a screen door, because she jumped out and scared me so bad after I answered one of her phantom door knocks.

So, it’s no surprise that, as I sat in my car answering a text message before leaving her house tonight, she managed to leave me quaking and beating my car horn in fear.

Brandy stepped outside to bring in her dogs and noticed that I was sat in the car doing something (texting). She didn’t hear my engine and thought my car had broken down, so she walked over to see if I needed help. Eventually, she heard my engine and thought it was the perfect time to enact a new scare. Clearly, dancing about in my headlights in her black coat and dark jeans wouldn’t work as I was otherwise engaged. So she began pounding on my passenger window.

Sat in my car, in the dark, in front of the woods behind Brandy’s house, I was already a bit creeped out. So when something dressed in black started pounding on my window, I began beating at the horn, screaming and trying to stop from having a fatal heart attack.

What did Brandy do? What she always does, laugh her butt off.

Things I’ve Learned, the 2010 edition

If you had asked me a year ago today what would happen over the upcoming year, I can honestly say that I don’t think I would have gotten a single prediction right.

No, I wouldn’t have said that I was going to be rich, a published author, wife, mother, etc. Those would have been the predictions of a crazy person.

I probably would have said that I’d still be in a relationship, that I’d have finished my master’s degree, and still be working at my last job, prepping for a big move to another part of the country.

See, totally wrong on all counts. I’m single, still working on that degree, and I got my dream job and work with some awesome people.

But what has happened over the past year has taught me quite a lot, and most of it has been absolutely hysterical. As it should be.

Honestly, if the year wasn’t hilarious, it could only be because I died before the year even started.

So, without further ado, I present for you all the things that I learned in 2010, in no particular order.

  • Being out of shape can, and will, result in someone thinking I’m pregnant.
  • The Apple TV remote is so small that I will forever lose it inside my couch. While it’s small, it’s the perfect size to use as a microphone when I’m singing to myself.
  • Never watch the trailer for The Human Centipede while eating a chili dog.
  • I’m not allowed to play Super Mario Bros. Wii while unsupervised.
  • It is possible to inhale the following things in hilarious, yet painful, ways: chili, spaghetti noodles, chai lattes, just-out-of-the-oven brownies, and jalapeño seeds.
  • Even Santa Claus gets speeding tickets.
  • I can, and will, lock both my keys and my glasses in the car at the same time.
  • I can hurt myself with my own footwear. And I don’t mean fall down or trip on it. I mean kick the flip-flop off my foot and hit myself in the head with it.
  • Never think about how long I’d survive in a horror movie while showering…or really doing activity in which people die in horror movies.
  • Even after doing it for the first time when I was six, I will still manage to fall into my laundry basket and get stuck.
  • A quorum of 2/3 majority must be established before voting can occur.
  • If I happen to slip and fall down on the paint in front of Target during a rain storm, I will always hear, “Don’t slip!” when I go to that Target with my sister.
  • My cat continues to hate me.
  • Apparently, if I wear my hair down and tuck my glasses inside of a beanie, I’m hot.
  • It doesn’t matter how long I step away from my phone or computer. Amir will find a way to hack my Facebook.
  • It is possible to mistake my finger for a potato while using a vegetable peeler. And it fricken hurts.
  • Speaking of…four stitches and a tetanus shot costs $1,653.48.

So with all of the awesome things I learned this year, I can’t help but make a couple of predictions for the upcoming year:

  • I will have finished my first novel and start writing a second (bonus points if I finish the second!)
  • I will finish my master’s or go insane!
  • I will be a 40s-style lounge singer

Stay tuned!

My Parents are Asexual, Right?

Recently, I’ve endured several conversations on how my friends and family learned about sex or conversations about their sex lives and sex toys in general. For the record, I played no role initiating these conversations, and in most, I was only subjected to them; I was not an active participant. Remember? No?

Hi, I’m Mindy, and I’m a prude.

I blame Sex and the City. Good God, pretty much every woman I know has seen the TV show and/or films. (I’m refusing. I made it more than 10 years without buying into the hype. I can survive this. God, I hope I can survive this.) As a result of the craze that is SATC, everyone and their Manolo Blahniks are talking sex. And unfortunately, I’m being pulled into the mix.

Some of the conversations have made me turn redder than my shoulders after 15 minutes in the summer sun. Such as the one a couple weeks back when it was asked if I had…well, you know…a toy.

And at times, the conversations were entertaining. For instance, there was the conversation I heard where the speaker threatened to rent a hotel room for…ahem, self-satisfaction, so that the ghost of her dead mother couldn’t see what she was up to. I would hope that ghosts can read minds, and at the mere thought of…hands-on lovin’, the ghost would want to go see what her other children are up to. Otherwise, do you think ghosts can wash out their eyes with soap? I know I wanted to after my mom made the aforementioned threat.


No child ever wants to this about his/her parents having sex. Horrific, I mean, ew! Parents are asexual, and the muffled noises we hear at night, well that’s just them playing army commandos, right? I don’t ever want to think about the process my parents used in conceiving me. I prefer to believe that I miraculously appeared in my mom’s uterus. I know it’s not true, but really, that’s a visual I don’t ever want to have again.

I remember Mom trying to talk to Paul and I about sex back in 1989. It was probably the most mortifying day of my life. Yes, it even tops that time I fell on my face in front of my entire office and flashed my underwear in the process. On that fateful day in fifth grade, the boys and girls were split up so that we could learn about our respective puberty cycles. Even though Paul and I had a pretty good grasp of what to expect, Mom still felt compelled to review it with us that evening following school. Worse, she did so with her mom sat next to her on the couch.

Say it with me, y’all: AWKWARD!

Some people may not mind learning about the birds and the bees from their parents. Okay, we didn’t mind that, but with Grandma there, it was a tad uncomfortable. I mean, it kinds begs you to start walking through the process of how you came to be. And not only did I have that disturbing mental picture of Mom and Dad doing what Barry White always alluded to, but I also had the same with my grandma. No wonder some people choose to rot their brains with drugs or video games.

Now do you wonder why I’m so strange? Or is it starting to become a bit more clear?

The Interview

Throughout my life, I’ve learned that there are some people who are a bit hesitant to believe just how accident-prone I can be. I find it funny, because I am very upfront about this fact.

How the heck could I keep something like that hidden? I’m the same girl who can’t be around a hot guy without seriously injuring myself. I seriously once nearly gave myself a concussion trying to retrieve a cap to a water bottle because a hot guy was sat about 10 feet away from me.

Usually, the way things work is that, when I disclose my not-so-secret affliction, people think, Oh, isn’t she cute? She thinks she’s accident-prone. I bet she’s tripped like once in her life.

Ha! I wish.

What then follows is that I do something, quite by accident of course, that proves that, if anything, I underestimate just how much of a walking disaster this girl can be.

And sadly, the person doesn’t quite believe how bad it gets. Then I tell The Interview Story. (It gets caps, because it’s totally epic in terms of having a Minday).

So, to show you how much of a Minday I can cram into a short span of time, I present The Interview Story:

Back in July of 2006, I was ready to move away from being a clerk at The Star and do something different. I applied for higher ed jobs, but just to fully cover my bases, I also applied for jobs at other newspapers in the area.

One newspaper called, and the editor asked me to come out for an interview that Sunday. It was a bit weird having to head off to Overland Park to meet with the editor on a Sunday, but hey, I know they tend to work some crazy hours, so who was I to judge?

The night before I crawled into bed and the nerves kicked in. Oh my God! What if he starts asking me all these questions about Kansas? I only know that the State Song is “Home on the Range” and that they’ve been having a massive debate on evolution since we crawled out of the primordial ooze! What if he asks about the Gross Domestic Product of the average tree trimming service in Olathe? Oh no!!!

So obviously, giving in to an exhausted sleep was a blessing…until I woke up at 2 a.m. and started right in again.


The next morning I awoke, not refreshed per se, but as ready as I pretty much could be. I showered and did the normal morning routine. I even actually did more to my hair than just my standard French twist. I straightened it, and I felt pretty darn confident about myself, even if I had to suck it in to squeeze into the skirt of my suit.

At 9:15 a.m., I was as ready to go as I could be, so I grabbed the portfolio of my stories, my wallet, cell phone and a pair of flip flops to change into once the interview had completed and I was back on the road heading toward home. I said goodbye to Zeus and the evil Satan Kitteh then walked outside, shutting the locked door behind me.

I shut the screen door and turned toward my car, my arms ladened with all the things I needed to take with me. Then, as though I had walked into an invisible brick wall, I stopped short. Without even looking at the items in my hands I knew what one thing they were not carrying: my car keys.

Son of a….

I dropped everything on the porch and turned back to the door. Even though I knew better, I turned the knob, which of course did not give due to it being locked. Crap! I thought. I needed to get going as soon as possible, but how could I do that when my keys hung on the other side of the door, laughing at me for being so stupid as to walk out without them???

The back door! I thought, then ran round the house, but it too mocked me as I jiggled the locked knob.

I needed to get in as soon as possible, but how? What could I do?

That’s it! I’ll call Brandy! I rushed back around front, grabbed my cell and speed dialed my sister. When the answer machine clicked on, I wanted to scream. Instead, as calmly as I could I said, “Brandy, it’s an emergency! Please call me on my cell when you get this.”

I hung up and waited, but as the second minute passed, I knew she wouldn’t call in time. I needed to get to Overland Park in 35 minutes, and if there was traffic, I would be out of luck!

So, I did what any desperate woman would do. I walked around the side of the house, found the basement window that Paul had once broken into and did the exact same thing. Of course, not realizing how the window opened, I kicked out the wood covering the broken window pane, and shimmied into the tiny gap. I actually (and surprisingly) fit, but of course scratched up my stomach and arm along the way. A small price though, because I WAS INSIDE!!

I rushed upstairs, grabbed the keys, rushed out the door, grabbed my items and jumped into the car. I sped out to Johnson County and arrived at the newspaper’s office with 10 minutes to spare.

As I had been instructed to do, I started to punch in the editor’s number when a man walked out of the building. He noticed me and knocked on the window. “You’re here for the interview?” he asked, and I nodded. “I’ve got to go cover a fire. Want to come?”

Knowing that flexibility is what comes with the territory of being a reporter, I said sure, grabbed my portfolio and hurriedly followed him to his car. During the drive he asked me quite a few of the standard interview questions. We drove from 435 and Metcalf to 135th Street and Metcalf but we couldn’t find any sign of a fire. So, the editor said screw it and drove back to the office so that he could continue the interview.

In all, the whole thing took two hours, but it gave me a glimpse not only of what the job would be like, but also what my potential boss would be like. And to be honest, I really enjoyed it. I could easily do the job at this paper.

Interview completed, we made general chit chat as he walked me to the front door. I even joked about my hectic morning, but it wasn’t until I was outside and walking to my car that it dawned on me. My keys weren’t in my hands. Nor were they tucked inside my portfolio.

Nope, they were hanging from the ignition inside my locked car, where I left them when I had jumped from my car to join the editor.

Oh joy.

The good thing is that I kept my hatchback unlocked specifically for this occasion. Back at that time I locked my keys in my car on average of once a month. (Fortunately, since I got the new car I don’t have to do that anymore.)

So, in my suit, I climbed through the hatch and into the front seat. As I was sliding down into the driver’s seat, I looked up to notice that the editor had walked out of the front of the building and was looking right at me.

Awesome, huh?

The funny thing is that I actually got a job offer from the paper. Unfortunately, it came one my first day of work at UMKC.


Questions and Answers

Being the aunt of three nieces and two nephews, I’d say I have a pretty good idea of the inquisitive nature of a child. As the kids grow and are exposed to new aspects of the world around them, the questions fly. They take on the traditional kids questions about the color of things. They ponder philosophy – Are my lost toys in Heaven? And ask questions that seem to have no answer (at least not to any of us) – How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?

Of course, I was an inquisitive child as well. My question of choice was WHY. Why is the sky blue? Why don’t dogs meow and cats bark? Why is candy yummy but liver’s yucky? Why are boys so stinky? Why can’t school be every day? (Yep, really asked that one.)

I had no bias toward questions or who I asked. Anyone and everything was game. The grocery store clerk shed her opinion on why peas tasted gross. My teachers deflected why I wasn’t allowed to read instead of doing math. My family would all but duct tape my mouth shut so as to not have to ponder why I wasn’t a twin, didn’t have pierced ears or blue eyes.

While my family bore the brunt of me, Mom had it the worst. All day, every day, I questioned whatever popped into my tiny, annoying, little mind. In the car, in the bath, at the dinner table, in bed as she read me to sleep. I’m sure that Mom was so grateful when I started reading on my own and the questions stopped. Instead of asking multiple questions to whomever was at hand, I asked myself and went off in search of answers.

I had moved on.

My past actions came back to haunt me at 16. No, I didn’t come into close contact with younguns going through that inquisitive phase. No, I got my license.

Before you scratch your head and ponder exactly how that works, I’ll just explain. A few weeks after I received my license, Mom, Brandy and I set off to what Mom referred to as “Mindy’s Mecca”: Wal-Mart. I should have wondered why Mom volunteered to ride in the backseat. It was so out of character, but being the ditz that I am, I failed to realize it.

We drove nearly five miles as normal, chatting and listening to the radio. Then it began.

“Mindy, I think it’s time for a little payback.” My ears perked up. Oh God, what had I done?? I was driving great – my hands were at 10 and two, I kept checking my mirrors and was driving the speed limit.

“Mindy, why is the grass green? Why do girls have to sit down to pee? Why can’t I have a pet monkey? Why did Evil Kneivel’s parents name him that?” And on it went.

I wanted to crawl into a hole. Brandy’s skin glowed bright red as she shook with laughter. Mom just wouldn’t shut up.

Then it hit me.

“If you don’t stop that,” I roared, “I’m going to pull over and give you the whoopin’ of your life!”

Silence met me. Mom’s favorite threat from over 10 years earlier had come back to bite her in the butt.

In the future, when I have kids, I may just pull the same scam when they’re driving Mrs. Mindy.

Here (Satan) Kitteh, Kitteh

I am a firm believer that what you name an animal helps shape the personality of said animal.

For instance, we once had this adorable baby Manchester Terrier we named Cujo. And while he didn’t trap a mom and son in their Ford Pinto until the boy died (read the book), he did nearly tear my dad’s thumb off…at the tender age of six weeks.

I adopted Nevaeh when she was a year old, so I didn’t feel right changing her name. But with her name being heaven spelled backward, I knew that being her owner wouldn’t be easy.

God, was I right.

I always joke that Nevaeh is Satan, because you can’t pet her without her trying to rip your hand off. She has an intense loathing of my niece Alexis, due to some trauma she suffered back when Alexis was a toddler. Every time Alexis visits, Nevaeh will scratch her. My sister Brandy refuses to come near her, for fear that Nevaeh will attack her…again.

While I love my cat, I do give her a wide berth at times, because back in 2005, I found out just how evil that cat can be!

My sister Jamie came into town along with her husband Ken and their four (yes, four) dogs. For the most part, having the dogs here was nice, except for a certain scare involving our nosy neighbor, a pit pull that managed to jump a six-foot privacy fence and animal control (but that’s another story for another day) and the incident that I am about to relate.

Less than an hour after the aformentioned pit bull scare involving my sister’s female dog Brendel (she may be a pit, but you couldn’t meet a bigger teddy bear of a dog!), Ken and I were getting ready to close up shop at my house and head to Brandy’s for an afternoon of cake, ice cream and water fights at my nieces’ birthday party. Before we left, I needed to grab all of the presents, including Mom’s, from her bedroom.

While Jamie and Ken’s three male dogs were outside, Brendel had the run of the house along with my wubbable, cuddly Zeus. To prevent any freakouts, we locked Nevaeh in Mom’s bedroom. But with me being the rocket scientist that I am (I really am starting to believe Mom when she says that, while I’m intelligent, I lack common sense), I totally forgot that’s why our little kitty was locked away for the day.

I entered Mom’s room, my arms laden with the books I was bestowing upon Brittany. I just wanted to put my items into the big bag of gifts from Mom and I so I could take them over to Brandy’s house. But I didn’t think through just exactly what I was doing, or else I probably could have prevented a lot of drama…and a lot of pain.

Mom’s door failed to latch properly, so whenever we needed to keep it shut, we propped something in the jamb to keep the dog or cat from pushing it open. Mom had done just that to keep Nevaeh away from the dogs.

But as I had gone inside, I had forgotten to latch the door behind me. But, in my defense, I never even thought about the dog going after the cat. Zeus and Nevaeh got on so well that I didn’t think about Brendel. And why should I have?

Gee, I don’t know…maybe it’s because cats and dogs are mortal enemies and Zeus and Nevaeh getting along was actually going against Mother Nature.

As I dropped the books on the bed, Brendel rushed into the room, scaring Nevaeh into the rear corner of Mom’s bed. I pushed the dog outside and shut the door. And yet again, I didn’t think about the door being pushed open. Way to go common sense!

Not even 30 seconds later the door burst open again. This time Brendel didn’t hold back. She leapt onto the bed and chased Nevaeh out of the room. Ken caught the dog and put her away. I took off after the cat so that I could lock her back into the safety of Mom’s room.

I chased Nevaeh out into the dining room then to the top step of the basement stairs when she finally came to a stop. I bent down to pick her up and forgot about the one thing that was about to change my morning from bad to worse: Zeus.

As I’ve said before, my cat and dog get on very well. But Nevaeh wasn’t thinking about their past friendliness. She was only thinking dogs = bad. So when she spied Zeus behind me as I squatted down to pick her up, she went into full-tilt freak-out mode. She tore her way up my legs to my torso, but she didn’t stop there. No, she climbed all the way up my body, stopping at my head.

Looking as through we were performing a poor man’s reenactment of the face-sucker scene in Alien, Nevaeh clung to my face, her claws dug into my poor temples. My hands grasped her forelegs, trying to pull her off my face. I tried screaming for help, but screaming through my kitty’s furry belly just wasn’t cutting it. I grabbed the paw dug into my right temple and ripped it out. I could finally call for Ken to come and rip the evil kitty off my face.

Ken walked into the kitchen and saw the quivering, snarling, white-hot ball of feline terror attached to my head. I’m sure I looked quite hilarious, and in retrospect, I laugh just thinking about what Ken probably saw: a woman with a calico face.

Without a word, Ken ripped the other claw out of my head. Nevaeh, still freaking out, scratched at him then took off to parts unknown (we later found her hiding inside the back of the couch – don’t ask, I don’t know). I ran to a mirror to see what damage had been done. Blood poured off my nose, lip and temples. I didn’t realize it at the time, but when she climbed up my face, she used her teeth, biting my nose and upper lip. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I tried laughing, but found I couldn’t. So I cried. Boy, did I cry.

Jamie called; I cried.

I called Mom; I cried.

Of course, Mom forced me to put Ken on the phone, because in my gibbering, Mom thought that the dogs had gone on a rampage and that I had been mauled and the cat mortally wounded. She didn’t have to rush out to the emergency room, just to the pharmacy to get me some extra-strength allergy medicine.

Oh, did I mention that I’m massively allergic to cats?

So we got the situation taken care of and were able to get to the party, but I learned one major lesson. When kitty’s upset, RUN AWAY!!!!! I know that her reaction was natural, but that ain’t going to stop me from running away anytime she starts puffing up at a dog. It’s just not worth it.

And that is just another reason why kitty = Satan.

Look Who’s Talking

We’ve all seen it. Better yet, we’ve all done it (though most are loathe to admit it). I did it about three minutes ago in the privacy of my bathroom.

Ewww, you perv! I’m not talking about that!

I’m talking about talking to yourself.

In my case, I’m usually giving myself crap for my latest Minday…like when I fell over in my office while stretching earlier today.

Seriously, we all do it. We even joke about how it’s okay to talk to yourself, it’s just kooky to answer yourself. And for that I must ask, really???

What I find to be the most bizarre about talking to one’s self is not the answering. No, it’s usually just the talking to one’s self that creeps me out. Well, no, not the regular “Doh!” or even the “Mindy, I can’t believe you just fell down while stretching!” I’m talking the full-on having an animated conversation in public so that other people give you a wide berth on the sidewalk.

Now, I wouldn’t mention this if it weren’t for the fact that I have seen this happen on multiple occasions over the past two days. Seriously, one of them was so animated I thought he was conducting an invisible symphony. Another one looked like she was having an argument with herself, complete with angry mutters and head shakes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making fun of these people. I’m just now wondering if I’m that kind of girl. When I fell down earlier, had a student passed by my office at that moment, would he or she have seen me giggling like a lunatic as I chided myself for no longer being so flexible?

Great. Now I’m thinking of every Minday I’ve had – from major to minor – and how I responded while alone. Oh man, I know that when I fell in the little pond at my last house, I totally razzed myself out loud as I drug my soaking wet self out of the pond and into the house. And don’t even get me started about the time that I babysat the toilet at NACA last year. And oh my God, not the time I Naired my eyebrows off.

I’m so screwed.