Okay, maybe I was taking things too fast with the suggestion that we consider ourselves brother and sister.

TRANSLATION: Hey! Lady! Get your ass out here and feed me!!! I may be feral, but I have needs!

Let’s back up and punt here: how about considering me a friend? A distant friend, perhaps. A friend you don’t particularly like but have been forced together with via circumstances out of your control, possibly. A frenemy even.

Come on. Give in. Let the grudge go and come out from behind the weeping fig.

It’s fake, you know.

It is.

It’s better that way. They’re really fussy. My mother had one when I was a kid. She moved it ten feet across the room and it dropped all it’s leaves and died.

African violets are the same way. I wont’ even look them in the eye at the grocery store because they’re likely to start wilting and drooping on the spot. Kind of like you. Hiding. Sulking. Making me feel bad and stuff.

TRANSLATION: Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth???

Fine. I’m sick of trying. Have it your way. The outdoor FERAL cats come running at the sight of me. They let me pet them. They seem happy to see me. You?

Whatever.

Weirdo.

No really. We are – kind of.

If you think about it: your adoptive father and my real father are the same guy. That makes us, arguably, siblings. And I know that sibling rivalry is a common thing and maybe you’re just now learning about it and exploring your own depths and intricacies, but I’ve had a brother for all but the first year of my life, and I can tell you it’s not worth it. Resentment like that will eat you from the inside out, man.

Way to look all freaked out, Mini.

So why don’t you just come out from behind that potted plant and stop treating me like I’m the Bogeyman, okay?

Really. It’s getting a little insulting.

Don’t you remember last night when you were sleeping on Dad’s bed and I went in and petted you and you purred and purred and then your eyes seemed to adjust and you gave me a look like, “Oh shit: it’s you. I thought you were someone else…” and then jumped down and darted under the bed? That was freaking rude. Especially since I thought we were finally having a breakthrough.

I don’t know what kind of manners Dad’s been teaching you (or not), but let me fill you in: it’s no way to treat someone scooping your digested remains from one box into another. Nice how your solitary confinement still allows you to produce copious amounts of crap.

I also notice you ate the entire bowl of 9 Lives Tuna Select (with flakes of real tuna!) I left out for you when I went to bed. Seems your hunger strike has its limits, eh Gandhi?

Fine. Whatever. Be that way. If you ask me, your loyalty is overrated. However, if you ask Dad, he’d probably be flattered at your continued sulking. Seems you may know which side your bread is buttered on afterall…

Dammit.

I got nothin’.

I suppose when every day is mindless debauchery, it’s so hard to differentiate.

Sometimes I do think about perpetual mindless debauchery as an option. Minus the occasional periods where you’re forced to sober up and deal with your shit (or so says your parents or loved ones or parole officer), I suggest it might be preferable to what I commonly think of as “the real world.”

I don't know what this is. I'm not sure I want to know. Maybe some kind of messed up cream pie with cherries and, uh, green weeds? At any rate, what matters about this picture is this: it's the least of the evils when you type 'debauchery' into Google Images. ***shudder***

Who needs “the real world” anyway?
Unless you’re rich or famous or otherwise high on the hog, the real world kind of sucks. Regularly.

In other news, I thought I’d attempt to give you some uber-boring but hopefully slightly amusing updates on my latest distraction. Oh yes. It is now official (and I’m even thinking of getting business cards made). I am Vanessa Wolf: international cat sitter,  writer, and raconteur.

Man, I love the word raconteur, and now thanks to Jack White (whom I also love although the live Union Forever album is a bit – well – rough, and Meg’s terrible drumming shines in all the ways you wouldn’t want it to) it’s in somewhat more common vernacular now so I could actually use it without seeming like a snob, but then again, most people probably aren’t super-familiar with the actual definition, just the band, and maybe it’s a bold claim to make about my own self (although I would like to learn it was put on my tombstone or at least mentioned at the funeral) so it’s probably best if I just keep it to myself as I have been doing for some time now already.

Speaking of which (and I swear I’ll eventually loop this around to where you can see the relevance), a girlfriend of mine was in Italy last week and on a trip to make connections in the leather and textile worlds. In her first email to me she related that she’d “met a wonderful Italian man. He is 80-something and owns a fabric shop where I spent $150 on a jersey silk wool blend. He spoke to me of harmony, poetry, and magic.”

So, like you, I wondered if she might actually be having some kind of affair with this elderly dude. Hell, with Viagra and Roman blood, I guess you never  know…

Thankfully, she followed up with some texts where she explained further that he did say something to the effect of, “please don’t wait me wait so long before you kiss me” but no such thing ever happened. However, a few days later she texted that she was “told I was exigent, whatever that means.”  I explained that it means demanding or unreasonable, and whoever said it was clearly a big, fat jerk.

So (as the story goes) she informed that it was the ‘ancient 80 year old guy’ who said it (and was once again rebuffed for a kiss, although I don’t know if that was before or after the highbrow name calling started), and then I suggested maybe he meant to say “exquisite” or “exotic” or “exceptional” and she said, “No. He meant exigent. He even spelled it for me.” Which brings me to two points:

1. Yes, it is impressive to know, let alone use big words, especially when English is (presumably) a second language, but it also makes you look like an arrogant asshole – especially if you call someone a word they don’t understand and even repeat it without providing the (judgmental) definition.

2. Eighty is OLD. I’m sorry, but there are very few 30-something women who are drawn to men old enough to be their grandpa (money, intelligence, charm, and ownership of an Italian fabric store notwithstanding), and my friend is not one of them. Neither am I, for anyone wondering. So don’t be a jerk about it, just age up about 25 or 30 years, and you’ll probably be fine. Or not. Whatever. Jerk.

Actually, seeing as I still feel kind of fired up about this, allow me to add a third point.

3. Unless you’re in a spelling bee or someone has SPECIFICALLY asked you for spelling help, don’t fucking spell words for other people when they don’t understand you. That’s so incredibly arrogant I almost want to buy a ticket to Rome just to hunt this guy down and give him a verbose talking-to and maybe hard slap across the liver-spotted cheek. Jerk.

In other news, I am sitting in my dad’s living room where I will be for many days to come and hopefully writing copious amounts of the new book (which I am rather happy with so far, happily) and watching the king, er, his indoor cat and his outdoor kitty zoo of feral felines. At this point, like any good ruler fearing an unfavorable coup, the king has been laying low, observing, and plotting his next move. I suspect he’s acting all nervous and coy in an effort to lull me into an unsuspecting state such that I won’t see nor expect it when he leaps from the staircase and claws my eyes out.

Either that, or he’ll decide to roll with the punches and warm up within the next 24-36 hours.

We shall see.

I know the Egyptians revered them as gods, so I don’t plan to underestimate His Royal Highness. For now, I’m just keeping the bowl stocked with Friskies Surfin’ and Turfin’ and watching my back.

Human skin is so soft and vulnerable to angry cat claws and my vision is not what it should be.

Truth be told, I feel a little bit like Ripley near the end of Alien, but as of yet all paranoia is purely the product of my own imagination.

Thus far.

Actually – true confession mode – I wrote this headline before actually checking that it’s going to be accurate. A bit of hubris, potentially, but we’ll get to that soon enough.

Meanwhile, I have this friend who occasionally seems to want to be the next Tony Robbins – but kind of isn’t, at least not yet – but occasionally puts on airs like he/she already is (I’m going sexless to hopefully protect the innocent…and just because celibacy is cool. Right, Lenny Kravitz?) Anywho, I happened to notice when someone recently posted on their Facebook page about whether or not they were still “living the dream” and (since none of us are really – right??? Please tell me you aren’t either) I kind of felt compelled to comment, “He/she sure is!: Chazz of Wedding Crashers style! Hey ma! The meatloaf! We want it now!”

That’s it. I resisted a bitchy urge and I thought I’d brag about it…which is pretty much as lame and bitchy as if I’d made a snarky comment about whether or not someone is living the dream. Hell, maybe they are? Maybe my problem – as usual – is that my dreams are too lofty. If only my dreams involved what I already have, I’d be living the dream in spades.

In other news, my god how I love Joan Rivers. I do. I LOVE JOAN RIVERS (and I’m not afraid to admit it). Bitch Stole My Look? Love. Starlet or Streetwalker? Genius. In fact, I am unabashedly considering becoming a lesbian in the hopes of winning her over: not that she wants a lesbian (but maybe if it’s me??? I can be goddamned charming when I feel like it.) So, like I was saying, I freaking love her. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

So my dad had a new kitten show up at his place on my birthday, and I suggested he name it Birthday, but he decided to get cute and responded that he’s naming it either Snookie or The Situation and just for that, I’m calling it JWoww no matter what sex it turns out to be or how prudish or slutty or whether it gets its six nipples enhanced or whatever lifestyle that whorish little kitten chooses to live: it’s JWoww to me from here on out. Which is kind of the same as being dead to me, but that’s another story.

Serves him right for not naming it Birthday.

Anyway, I bring this up because there are these irritating ads for something called ‘The Buried Life’ that occasionally interrupt my ‘Jersey Shore’ viewings, and I guess they have some kind of bucket list despite the fact that they’re 13 years old and MTV is helping them knock it out, and the episode being advertised was “Get Married in Vegas,” and I was all, “Hey! I’ve done that! I’m all over that bucket list!” so I thought I’d compare here.

The list, unfortunately, is a hand-written photo. Sorry ’bout that.

My comments appear below.

Been there, done that: 7, 8 (mechanical), 9 (pretty much one per year), 11, 13, 16, 19, 21, 22 (hey, the mirror don’t lie!), 23, 25, 29 (every fucking day), 30, 37, 39 (in my car. Close enough.), 40 (Easter Sunday. I was like five, but it still counts), 44, 45, 49 (see: worked in corporate sales), 51, 52, 54, 46, 57 (close enough: four days at a Buddhist monastery), 58, 59 (I’m not asking anyone anywhere…unless it’s Joan Rivers), 61, 62, 63, 65, 67 (define “important), 68, 72, 74, 78, 82, 84, 85 (see #72), 86, 90, 91, 92, 93, 96, 97

Arguably (or at least I’d argue about it): 4 (probably), 5 (does my ass count?), 14 (a random black hair I pluck from time to time and as close as I’m ever going to get. Live with it.), 17 (define “huge”), 27 ($20 – and I sent some ungrateful kid in Africa $50 a month for years now, so there), 32 (arguably), 41 (I didn’t crash the wedding, but it was the first time I’d met them), 42 (in Spanish class, and I think the fact that I hosted in Spanish makes it count), 64 (Heard the album), 69 (I would never do that to a guitar), 70 (my brother did and I was aware of it: ergo, crossed off), 75 (probably if you add up all the money I’ve ever made grossed), 76 (see: Dozer), 94 (Weird Al. Don’t ask.), 98 (as in “bet on the…”?)

WIP: 1 (just wait until I get that bank robbery under my belt…), 2, 3 (maybe eventually), 6, 10 (would like to), 12 (does this have to do with football? Not interested), 15 (Me and Dr. Hook), 18, 20, 24 (could be easily accomplished, I suppose), 26 (something tells me a contempt of court charge would be in my future), 28, 31, 33 (WTF is krump?), 34 (pay for your own damn groceries!), 35 (never gonna happen), 36, 38, 43, 46, 47, 48 (who do I look like? Nancy Drew?), 50, 53, 60, 66 (what is this with the Playboy Mansion?), 71, 73, 77, 79, 80 (who?), 81, 83, 87, 88 (what????), 89, 95, 99, 100

p.s.

Why three wwws?

And yet, I still kind of have nothing of any real import to share, so here is a generic list o’ stuff in no particular order.

• I have been writing the new book. It’s gone relatively smoothly minus the ever-present slight concern that where I’m taking things plot-wise is maybe too far or too slow or not quite perfect, but that’s the way it goes, I suppose. Today I will cross the 100-page mark, which is the clearest sign that an actual novel will come out of this in the end.
• It’s cold as hell, and yet it’s as warm as it’s ever going to be for quite some time.
• I’m another year older tomorrow, and yet I’m as young as I’m ever going to be…especially today.
• My Sims2 have been neglected, but not forgotten…especially not on Saturday night. I’ve created a family based on myself and my dog, except they don’t have dogs in The Sims2, so he is represented by a young black child with white hair named Smelly. Smelly is a lot more useful than the real case study upon which he is based because he’s able to wash the dishes, do yard work, and order a pizza. Hmmm… Maybe I should look into adopting a young black child? Madonna and all them make it look so easy…
  

  Give him a kingdom to oversee, and he's happy.

• I know it’s $2 or $3 or even $4 a cup, but lattes are so much better than any French press or drip coffee I make myself. And they don’t act as a colonic delivered via my mouth. One more reason I need to get rich…and soon.
• In the same vein, I realize I’ve got to get my hands on a baby monkey, get it it to ride my dog (backwards being fine, if not preferable), have someone write a catchy and stupid tune to go with it, and become a YouTube sensation. He also does a great thing where he smashes his face against glass doors and rubs his tongue all over it. Hilarious stuff, that.
• I love Top Chef but I don’t give a rat’s ass about Top Chef Just Desserts. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, and TV is already overcrowded with people making ridiculous cakes and swords out of hard candy and copulating swans out of chocolate. Yawn.
• I’m headed back  to the east side of the state in a couple days as a very good friend is getting married and then I’m off to Pennsylvania for a couple weeks to watch my dad’s kitty zoo while he’s on vacation. In theory, I will keep up my  book writing momentum, although I plan to do just a few pages tomorrow in honor of my bday and again on Thursday because (as I just told you if you were paying attention) I have to drive across the state and that takes a long ass time during which I cannot (unfortunately) write. Actually, in the spirit of accuracy, I COULD write during the drive, but I would likely also die in a fiery car crash for the effort.
• The parade of Housewives never ends. I’m happy to report I disconnected from the DC wives and have no idea what happened or who they are or who’s insane, but I am ashamed to share that I did watch about 20 minutes of those godforsaken Atlanta Housewives. Damn it all to hell! And what did Kandi do to her hair with that red section on top? And does anyone else think Kim is a man in drag? And why didn’t Dwight take a single lesson from the plastic surgery mistakes of Michael Jackson???
• Looking at the clock, it’s about time to go boil some water for some of that colon-cleansing coffee and get my write on.
• I kind of want to go see that Jackass 3D movie. This is the same part of me talking that misses Crank Yankers and owns the Rob & Big DVDs. The part of me that’s a 12-year-old boy.
• Having walked the dog and witnessed – and more often that not, picked up – his every bowel movement for three weeks, I can tell you two things definitively:

1. Think twice before owning a 100-pound dog in a city. Not only will they yank your arm out of its socket over the sight of a Pomeranian in some lady’s arms two blocks away, but they make bigger dumps than those of a horse.
2. Not all poop can be scooped. Case in point, the mess this morning looked shockingly akin to chocolate cake batter, and I didn’t even get a bag out and fake it for fear of getting too close. Besides, the flies were apparently given advance warning and started swarming in almost immediately. My new attitude toward certain poop scooping scenarios: I really don’t need tourists handing me Wet Ones baby wipes after I take a hit for the team; so watch your step, and wear rubber soled shoes. It’s a jungle out there, and my canine provides the quicksand.

Good luck,  happy sightseeing, and enjoy your smooth expensive coffee, you rich bastards.