on cats in boxes

Well, here's some more about my cat. It's a preview of what Kristin and I hope will be a successful and well-received art exhibit in the new house, called "Maxi sitting in boxes (and other tight spaces)". Because seriously, this cat is BANANAS for boxes.


Shoebox. Tight fit.




rest your weary head, little one.




Pizza box on my bed cuz I'm grody

so sneaky

Each time a new box enters the household, she has to break it in by sitting motionless in or on it for like 3 hours.

thinking about it....

Birthday Tribute

Maxi II,
on August 15, 2007 you came into this world along with your brother who later died and maybe some other cat siblings, born to a single mother in someone's laundry room or stairwell, and 8 weeks from that day when I got you off craigslist (for free) and some girl handed me a teeny version of you, with no accessories, in a parking lot off of Pine street, I knew my life would never be the same. I'm so glad to live in a small enclosed space with you, where we have grown together into a pair of fat lazy whiners. Thank you for the love and affection you've given me, and for never eating anything poisonous. Thank you for understanding that it makes me kind of uncomfortable when you try to snuggle up with me when I'm sleeping naked. Someday Mommy will get you a house with a backyard, princess. Someday.

FOUND

I found this sweet ring, which is of a screaming eagle face, while rummaging through my parents' giant coffee can full of loose change on a search for quarters that would allow me to do laundry and play skee-ball. Can't wait to shine 'er up. Jealous?

Welcome Back, Us.

Well hey there, summer!

We're trying to ease ourselves back into the creative, selfabsorbed mindspace that has generated the majority of SP posts and kept our loyal readership of 3 riveted. It might take us some time, but we just had a pretty serious gmail chat about reviving this precious piece of the internet.

Today I'd like to share a piece of poetry I wrote when I was 8. It's entirely possible I've written an entire post about this subject before, because I have like 4 stories that I interchange, but this time there's photographic evidence.

So I went to a "Gifted and Talented" school from 1st through 5th grade... ironic because I had already finished 1st grade in another state but was judged to be not quite mature enough for 2nd grade in my new school. The first appearance of a common theme in my life.

My mother became what you might call an academic stage mother, which is super bogus because if she had just invested the time and energy spent making me read books and quizzing me on Great Women In History flashcards (Seriously. Seriously, I had those) into something worthwhile, like infant beauty pageants or a desperate quest for child stardom complete with a U-Haul journey to a long-term stay motel in LA where I would go on audition after audition, smiling a wide gummy smile under fluorescent lighing (gives gifted children headaches, BTW) while reciting stale copy designed to convince an endless, indistinguishable calvalcade of balding disinterested producers that I loved Polly Pocket, I loved her SO BAD, while my mother chain smoked outside mentally calculating the number of extra shifts she'd have to pick up at Denny's in order to make the weekly rent, IF that had happened instead, we'd all have a lot more to show for it, but I guess that ship sailed as soon as I got my very first pair of thick plastic glasses at age 6, with an asexual bowl cut to match. So it looked like I would have to be smart.

(Please note that this was an excellent preview for what I would find are the 3 generic marginalizations that most extremely tall girls get .. "You must play basketball" "Wow you're tall. You should..... uh...model..."(said insincerely) or "Jesus, you're tall... like a dude.")

OK, so all that setup is just to explain that my mother decided she was going to force me to live up to the moniker Gifted and Talented and therefore made me enter any and all writing or art-based competitions within the great state of Indiana. And then it happened.... I won BIG.

See below:

let me transcribe, because a phone camera picture of a ditto sheet from 1992 is not the best way to preserve such a worth relic of my past. Unfortunately, there's no way to recreate the sheer awesomeness of the clip art used to illustrate.

Maria's poem "Rain" won first place in the 3rd and 4th grade Poetry Division in the Creative Writing Contest sponsored by the Indianapolis- Marion County Public Library Foundation.

Maria's poem was one of 1,162 entries received in her division. Congratulations to Maria for her outstanding wirting!

(Maria is a 3rd grade student in Mrs. Hyatt's class)

RAIN

Heavenly tears from the skies.

As it cries. As it cries.

Drizzling lakes, pouring seas

Puddles up to the knees

It is truly a wonderous time

When the rain will fall and the sun ceases to shine

Oh, Mother Nature!

You have given us a gift!

Noone else but you could creat rain

So soft, so swift.

Oh, what a thing you are. Rain!

Trickling down the window pane.

I could not have peace without you.

Rain.

Dang, move over Maya Angelou, am I right? Also, the fact that there were 1,161 poems deemed WORSE than this cloying verse that I probably plagiarized is depressing. I'm glad my lack of any kind of religious upbringing led me to call upon "Mother Nature" instead of "Jesus" or "Heavenly Father". I was basically destined to be an Orkila camp counselor and praise "Earth" before every meal.

The winning of this competition is, for real, the best thing I've ever done in my mother's eyes. Until the day at age like, 20 that I finally begged her to stop and never ever ever mention that goddamn fucking "Rain" poem again, she would bring this up as evidence of my creative genius and thusly my entitlement to success at some sort.

MARIA, AGE 17: I didn't get into NYU and I'm too fat for my prom dress and it looks like I have a hickey on my neck but really it's just a big zit because I've never even kissed a boy and I don't have cute shoes because my feet are too big and I hate everything, everything in the world.

MOM: Baby, look at all you've done in your life already. Remember "Rain"?

That's all I have for today. Welcome back, Stag Party!

Looks like we've gone on one of our depressive, melodramatic hiatuses, to be followed by a smattering of facebook messages when we are in need of atte

ntion again!

More of the saddest people

Those who call into commercial radio stations at peak rush hour traffic times and attempt to be sassy/cute/flirty/familiar with the DJ, who is, himself, one of the saddest people.  Sad if callers are aged fifteen or younger; tragic if they're older.

Wednesday Special

Since Maria's busy handing out tote bags and getting plowed on the company dime at Something Boring About Construction Software Annual Conference Ought-Nine, and I'm balls-deep in a high-stakes game of Minesweeper, Stag Party is going to do something it has not done before: encourage you to peek the work of our dear friend, Nicole Laverty, for no immediate ego-boosting/self-deprecating/monetary return-- basking in the delight of this naked buffalo lady, painted with whiskey and truffle oil, is reward enough:



And you should totes follow Nicole's blog, butterme, baby, 'cause shit's about to blow up quicker than these sweet, sweet pixelated mines I be sweepin.'

Product Review

In my never-ending quest to reduce the number of showers per week I feel pressured by society to take (as it is important in life to have goals) I recently invested $4.99 in a product named PSST! Dry Shampoo.  It's been around since the 70s, and I guess the original packaging is still working for them, because they haven't changed it, ever.

 

On the back of the can they helpfully list suggested scenarios that might require the use of dry shampoo.  This might be because dry shampoo is for lazy, filthy people like me who would rather sleep for an extra 20 minutes than perform expected routine tasks of personal hygiene, so it's good to have a few reasons that will excuse your ownership of the product, should someone come across it in your bathroom drawer and want answers.

The reasons they give:

Between Shampoos

On Camping Trips

After Sports

When You Are Ill

Really though, there are so many more reasons to use PSST! and I think that, should the makers ever decide to reintroduce the product to a market of 21st century consumers, they might want to take a look at a few of the myriad reasons I've already come up with:

When You Are Too Depressed To Get Out Of Bed.

In The Car On The Way To Work After A Weekday One Night Stand You Already Regret.

During A Visit To Your Grandma's House After She Catches On And Hides Her Valium, As A Temporary And Ruinous High.

To Cover Up The Dense Smell Of Weed At Your Boyfriend's Apartment So He Doesn't Get Another Note From The Landlord Because If He Gets Evicted He's Not Fucking Moving In With You.

In Between "Featured Dances" At Little Darlings When Your Hair Is All Matted From Sweat And You're Backstage And Your Kid Will Not Stop Crying And The Owner Is Yelling At You For Bringing Him To Work Again And God When Will All This End.

To Make A Simple Blowtorch. 

Feel free to add your own! 

This Gun's For Hire

In my business, we call this "consulting," but here's what it all boils down to: I need money, and you need shit done. Here's some shit I can do for you:

• Getting hospital drunk and heckling your ex-boyfriend's band, making the lead singer cry, etc.
• Coming up with thesis titles that both amaze and confuse. To wit: "From Boot-Hat to Bindle and Back Again: A Semiotic Analysis of the Plains State Hobo," and "BARRACUDA! Or is it? Animism and Gender Identity in Heart's Early Years."
• Crafting you the kind of Personal Budget that will always leave room for a pack of Pall Malls and some buffalo jerky, but neither pants nor cable.
• Telling pointless stories at your awkward party to keep the conversation flowing. These usually start with something innocuous enough, like "I was standing in the checkout line today…" but will inevitably turn into barelling steam engines of poor elocution and offense, ending somewhere in the region of: "…and that's how I paid for my English degree with Nazi gold."
• Rating your record collection from the perspective of a whiskey-guzzling burnout living in Puyallup in 1976.

Money orders, cashier's checks, and the afore-mentioned Pall Malls accepted.

Virtual Tour

I cleaned my apartment... like really, really cleaned it. It was an experience I would now like to share with you.

For context, a typical "before" picture, taken prior to a night out on the town during the summer.

CHALLENGE: can you find: takeout containers, a dead plant, a full box of fruit cups, my cat resting on a pile of trash, leg makeup, my crotch shot.

OK, now check it out. As a disclaimer i should mention that my building is kind of old and I have a lot of stuff, so what constitutes really clean for me is is not like, "khaki clad mom wielding Bounty paper towels in commercial aired during daytime TV" clean, it's more like "young freshman pledge attempting to keep his room in the frat house neat but not so neat he gets called queer" clean.

First up: the kitchen.

See, I know you're thinking... whatever, pretty standard, not that great. But look, I have a TEAPOT. Like an adult. And there aren't dishes on the sink, AND nothing is visibly rotting in the fruit bowl. Let's continue.

This is my cupboard, which is where my dishes are now, arranged with their like compatriots. Usually they are in the sink, or lying next to my bathtub covered with dried ketchup and stale bits of chicken patty. On one amazing occasion a gentleman friend found a dirty plate 'neath the pillow he was sleeping on. That won't happen again!

Moving on...


This is the top of my refrigerator which clearly adds to the theory that I am slowly morphing into the cartoon character "Cathy" as you will notice the contents are: Kahlua, Bloody Mary mix, Margarita mix, cheap and dusty red wine, cat treats, and about 12 different weight loss/slimfast powders. Below you can see other people's wedding/bridal shower/baby shower invitations affixed with my one magnet, which advertises a 24 hour cat emergency room. Yep.




This is really where I just kind of cram the stuff I don't have room for anywhere else, but since all my art supplies are in a box there I like to call it my studio. I have high hopes of summer days spent creating masterpieces while I gaze out the window at my foxy shirtless neighbor sunbathing on his balcony....until the day I muster up the courage to ask him if he'd like me to apply gentle strokes of sunscreen to his giant horse tattoo so it doesn't fade in the sun.

you might think the bed is where the magic happens. but you'd be surprised. Sometimes you can find curly fries in the cushions to enjoy as a delicious nightcap, but since J in the B on Broadway closed, it's been happening less and less. But, sometimes.


I like to turn all the lights off except the Christmas lights and pretend I'm sitting on a porch in Savannah with a sweet tea, watching the firefies dip and play. But then I spill Rainier all over the bed and have to turn the lights back on to change the sheets.

my closet is not so great or organized, but Maxi has not recently kicked cat shit on the floor so it's like a GRIP better than normal. Also, bonus points if you can figure out a good outfit I can wear that leopard print shrug with... I was going to return it but then I got part of a Shamrock shake on it and now the fake fur's a little matted, so...

I've wanted Tibetan prayer flags ever since the days of Camp Orkila when Trek proudly displayed them on Turnripple. I've wanted to continue collecting pictures of birds made entirely out of feathers ever since I realize they really creep my mom out. God, let's take a moment and watch that hardwood gleam.


Hey, have I somehow managed to go the last five minutes without trying to overcompensate for what I worry you may perceive as my life's current mediocrity by finding a way to bring up the fact that I've spent time in Southeast Asia in a conversation where it would not normally be considered relevant? Well then, why don't you look at my Buddha faces, or maybe my Vietnamese propaganda posters, and then try not to forget next time.

These are my washing products. MaybPublish Poste now that they are arranged so pleasingly I will venture into the shower more often. Just kidding, my hygiene is excellent.

The Saddest People

The only thing more depressing than the way I obsessively peruse Craigslist Missed Connections are the people who SO DESPERATELY want one to be about them that they reply to the vaguest listings (for example "Brunette in car on I-5") with postings like, "More info!?!?!? What was I wearing?????"

Milestone

Today, we had more than 7 people read this blog.


April Fools!

scenes from capitol hill

In the last 10 minutes, I had the pleasure of overhearing two separate altercations on the street right outside my apartment.

Scenario 1 involved a (clearly mentally unstable) man who felt that the car backing out of the driveway next door to my building came a little too close to him for his liking.  He challenged the driver to a  fight.  When the driver refused to throw down the gauntlet, the aggrieved party attempted to explain why he was upset by yelling various combinations of the words "fuck" "pussy" "twat" "bitch" and "motherfucker" before spitting onto the windshield.  Eventually, he meandered on and the car, wipers blazing, was able to fully depart the driveway.

Scenario 2 I sadly don't really know the background of, but what I saw was a burly man leaning over the balcony of his apartment (across the street from mine)  using impressive voice projection methods to tell another man, leaning out of a window a few buildings down, that he was going to fuck his ass up.  Man #2 loudly expressed his doubts that Man #1 was capable of this, and went so far as to offer the counterpoint that he, in fact, would be the one to fuck Man #1 up.  Big time.  Both men soon retreated into their respective domains, and from my observation, no further action has been taken. 

 All in all very exciting,  like what I imagine the mean streets of Brooklyn may have had to offer back in the 1930s, if there had been meth back then.

The Company I Keep

These are all actual contacts in my phone, noted while culling my address book.

(Alphabetical)

A (Likes Bacon)
Also Don't Answer
B Mom
Bum Phone
Bum Phone 2
Catalin Looks Like Gargamel
Don't Answer
Don't pick up
Ds WW
Hot Ira Glass
Jamer in us
Mane n Tail
New BFF (girl)
Probably don't answer

De Rien

My creativity has been at about the caliber of driftwood/a j. coug meinkampf album this week, so enjoy some xmas phots of tin tin and flossie instead:



They are both dead.

Excerpts from The Office Debate On "Blade Runner" I Have Had The Pleasure Of Listening To For The Last 20 Minutes

" So, the replicants were humans, they were just changed."

"No, they were androids"

"They were genetically produced"

"No, they were produced from organic and metallic materials"

"You have to understand, you're entering into one of the great debates of all time."

"the director has come forward to say he's a replicant"

(angry silence)

something that is dumb

Not to be all stand-up comedian "what's the deal with something mundane"-ish but you know what is really stupid? When you have to make a password to use a website that like, tracks your daily calorie consumption, or informs you about your vision insurance benefits, or basically like serves any other function dealing with non-sensitive information that noone in the entire world would care about besides you and they make you choose a password adhering to like 2983748932 different specifications... like you MUST have at least one uppercase letter, at least one number, and that number cannot be in your birthdate, etc etc

Which then totally fucks up everything because I have like one generic password I use for everything, and my bank seems to think it's fine, but apparently it's not safe enough for my online food diary, god forbid someone should hack it and find out how many grams of almonds I eat in a day.

AND I just registered to pay my J Crew credit card online, and I had to choose FIVE different security questions that I will have to answer the next time I log in because I've already forgotten my alphanumberic-special symbol-weirdly capitalized password I just made up and the options they give are all really hard because they like somehow make me feel bad about my nomadic childhood/ I'm convinced I will forget the answers and be forced to call a customer service person on the phone, my worst nightmare.

Stuff like:

• what is the street you grew up on?
• what was the name of your first grade teacher?
• what was the name of your first pet?
• what city was your mother born in?

I lived on about 15 different streets before I turned 18 so clearly don't remember any of their names, and I attended two different first grades in different states, and do my sea monkeys count as my first pet, or is it my guinea pig? My mom was born in new york city, do I put that or just "new york" or Manhattan? I just know I'm going to forget all of these things and then the credit card will go unpaid and both my bridesmaids dresses are going to be repossessed before the weddings.

so that's why online passwords are stupid... this reads like a sample routine I might perform during the daytime for an assistant manager at "Giggles" who, after I leave, turns to his colleague and says, "Bro, when will women learn that they just aren't funny?"

The Pony Car

This morning I was driving to work all bleary eyed and disoriented because i had my phone on silent so, obviously, didn't hear my alarm and I couldn't sleep all night and then when I did manage to drift off my cat would try to fall asleep directly on my neck which she can't do without first forcefully kneading her giant paws into my trachea which causes me to choke/stop breathing and, luckily, wake up. So I wake up and check my phone praying it's like, 5 AM but it is, in fact 8:50... so I get up and get ready in 3 seconds and run out the door only to get stuck in horrible I-5 traffic, but this is where it all gets note-worthy...

So I look to my left and there's a scratched up blue Ford tempo and the back window is totally crowded with toy ponies. Plush toys, plastic replicas, even models made of aged tin. seriously like, 10-14 toy ponies crowded together, staring out the back window with blind painted eyes. An assortment of overflow ponies lay limp in the backseat, which looked a lot like my backseat, in that the floor was covered with wrappers and bottles.

And then I see that there are ponies on the dashboard too! And we're like, stopping and starting so obviously someone has gone through the effort of styling/posing them and gluing them down. There were only like 3 on the dash, all medium sized and plastic.

In the passenger seat was a large stuffed horse.

The driver was an obese, grizzled man.

There was a rusty hitch on the back of the car which I guess you could use to drag a horse trailer or a body.

One thing I have always been interested in, is how many times in life I've actually been in real danger... or even, how many times in life have you been in close proximity with someone who is capable of committing a crime of unspeakable nature. Like, what if when you die you go through all your close calls... if you had taken a left turn here, you would have gotten T-boned and died. If you had gone home with that guy that night, he would have eaten your eyes. The guy you sat next to on the bus when you were 15 was totally a serial killer.

I am confident that this would be one of those times. This man was not just a pony fan. This man was evil. He took the 45th Street exit.

Beware the pony car.

please welcome to the family

My new baby ocelot.

We will be spending the rest of our days together until the time comes that I have to bite its face off because it's too cute to live.

"Hello!" says the baby ocelot.  

The Seattle PI Isn't The Only Thing I Mourn Today

RIP: Dreams of glamorous adulthood in an urban setting

I woke up this morning, makeup on and teeth unbrushed, feeling the effects of a pitcher and a half deep within my body. I felt like such a champ for representing my trashy Irish heritage on St Patty's day, until I realized I totally came home at like, 11 because I am old and can no longer stay up.

On the floor next to my bed, myriad ants swarmed a crumpled Jumbo Jack wrapper, slipping and sliding as they navigated the paper's greasy peaks. A group came together long enough to lift a piece of curly fry, but the directionless team quickly imploded and the fry toppled to the ground. Maxi cowered.

I checked my email to find a FWD: from my mom touting the benefits of eHarmony, and a "thanks but no thanks" response letting me know I am apparently not cute enough to stand around at Sounders games and try to get people to sample a product. Not even Mariners or Seahawks games, SOUNDERS games. Clearly, am hideous.

Killed all the ants with one fell swoop.

RIP: Last shred of hope for the existence of any indication of male decency in the world

"Pretty much every guy knows that big girls are the best to sleep with, because they know they have to work hard to keep you."

-young, Hobbitish man at bar last night.