October 31, 2008 at 10:25 pm (cats, Geeking out, Scary movies)

Tonight’s Halloween and I will be hitting the streets in a  Jane Jetson costumes I made. I’m really excited because I haven’t dressed up in two years because of general college-age related laziness.

I was thinking about all the costumes I’ve worn over the years, and I thought I’d list them here.

Age 3: The toothfairy. I think this was the first time I dressed up. I was really into the idea of someone putting money under my pillow.

Age 4: Shere Khan from the Jungle Book, the big bad tiger. He was my favorite character because he made such a good villain. Also, I was a weird little kid.

Age 5: A black cat. My mom went as a gray mouse. We were pretty adorable.

Age 6: The Little Mermaid, complete with real sea-shell bra. Okay perverts, I was wearing a nude colored body suit too. I couldn’t walk very well in this one. I specifically remember eating it in front of some big scary middle schoolers.

Age 7-8: Belle from Beauty and the Beast. My yellow ballgown OWNED. I can still recite that movie word for word. I was Belle two years in a row because the next Disney move to come out, Aladdin, featured Jasmine and I thought her outfit looked freezing.

Age 9: Vampiress. The fake blood capsules I buy from the Halloween store not only taste like shit, but stain my teeth for several days afterwards.

Age 10: Witch.

Age 11: No idea. I think this might have been the year we went camping. I was pissed.

Age 12: Old school movie star. I wore one of my grandma’s vintage dresses. This was the first year I got turned away from a house for looking too old. We went back later and TPd the house.

Age 13: Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. This costume doubled as a book report project on the Odyssey. I got an A.

Age 14: Heather Graham in The Spy Who Shagged Me. Blond wig, pink tube top, blue eyeshadow. Bad, very bad.

Age 15: Renaissance knave. Spent two hours trying to achieve that medieval cleavage, to no avail.

Age 16: Fairy. At this point a “costume” meant fairy wings and a tube top. I was a very classy teenager.

Age 17: Something my mother wouldn’t have approved of, probably involving a tube top.

Age 18: Twiggy. My first college Halloween. My date, Tinkerbell gets totally sauced on vodka cokes and we go home at 9 p.m. Tink, you know who you are!

Age 19: Holly Golightly. Went to a party in Seattle where every drunk person on the street saw me, pointed and said “You’re that one chick! From that movie!.” I have a very real Holly G moment when I ride the ferry back in my evening dress and tiara.

Age 20: Possessed baby doll. Yellow dress with a string and ring on the back to appear like a talking doll. I end up looking really creepy (and drunk) in my pictures due to too much wine.

What was your favorite costume?

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I feel five years old

September 16, 2008 at 10:04 pm (anxiety, cats, unhealthy obessions)

Yesterday I was walking home when I saw a cat lying in the road. I told him to get out, that he was going to be ran over. But he didn’t budge. When I walked closer to him, he looked sick, worse than sick, he was dying. I’m not very level-headed in situations like this so I scooped him up and put him in the shade on the sidewalk. He could barely stand for two seconds before collapsing into a furry heap, his small eyes half closed. He was brown and stripey, small like a kitten, but obviously older. I could feel his bones through his sagging skin.

Walking up the stoop to the nearest house, I hoped that he belonged to somebody, that someone could help him. A woman answered the door.

“Do you have a cat?”

“Yes,” she said, looking panicked. We walked down to the sidewalk together. He didn’t belong to her. Her cat was black and big. Her young daughter came outside.

“Honey, thats a kitty,” she said. “He’s very sick.”

She said she’d check on him and if he still hadn’t moved, she’d call animal control. She went back inside the house

I walked back to my house. I was there two minutes before I asked Jacob to come with me to bring the cat some food and water. Perhaps he was just dehydrated and hungry.

We returned to the cat. He had crawled several inches from where I’d left him. I set the food and water down and he looked up quickly and stumbled towards them, but he didn’t drink or eat, he slumped down again. I moistened the food with some water and fed it to him by hand. When he ate, his jaw made an awful grinding noise like he was a broken mechanical toy.

“Don’t feed him like that,” said Jacob. “He could be sick. You could pass it on to our cats at home.”

But he was eating. I kept feeding him moistened bits of cat food, getting my hopes up that he could be saved. He drank a bit of water and then started to dry heave. He stumbled, his small legs crossing one over the other drunkenly. He fell down again and rolled onto his side, his breathing shallow. His small golden eyes were only half open.

“What do we do?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Jacob replied. “We can’t afford a hospital.”

“Its too late for a hospital,” I said shaking my head, hating myself for the tears running down my nose and crashing onto the pavement. “What do you do with a dying cat?”

I asked for his phone so I could could call my mom. She answered and I sobbed into the receiver.

“He’s sick and dying and I don’t know what to do.”

“Who dying?” my mom asked, panicking.

“A cat.”

“Your cat?”

“A cat I found on the street.”

I heard my mother sigh. “Nathalie,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do. Cats die. Cats go outside to die too. Call animal control. Don’t touch it. It might have diseases.”

It felt like a conversation I should have had when I was five.  I had pets that died, but peacefully in bed, or under deep sedation in a clean, white vet’s office. Never like this, out in the open, on hot pavement. It felt unnatural, and terrible.

I said I’d call her later and hung up the phone. I stroked his furry body and tried to feed him. But he wouldn’t eat. It dawned on me that even if I sat here all night monitoring him, it wouldn’t make a difference. This cat was going to die, and I couldn’t change that. I felt horrible.

After a while, I let Jacob walk me back up the street. The cat stayed there. We went to a friends house and watched a movie.

On the way home, I hoped Jacob would go a different way, so I wouldn’t be tempted to look for him. But we drove by the house where I’d left him to die. It was dark. All I could see were shadows.

“I didn’t see him there,” Jacob said. “Maybe he got better.”

He rubbed my knee and smiled. I smiled back, but I was old enough to know better now.

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You answer my questions, now

September 9, 2008 at 9:30 pm (anxiety, cats, Political-ish)

There have been a lot of things happening lately that confuse me and Google is not giving me the answers I want. So, dear readers (all five of you), please answer the following:

1. Even though it is quite obvious that Sarah Palin is about as prepared to take second seat in the White House as I am prepared to perform nuclear fission, why are McCains’ approval ratings going up? Is Sarah Palin made of chocolate and faeries? Or is the majority of this country as stupid as I fear?

2. A reporter recently quit from my paper and her job is about to be up for grabs. My co-workers are telling me to apply for this position but I am conflicted. Should I take a reporter job for about the same pay as I’m making now, longer hours and a guarantee that I will probably cry everyday to expand my resume, or should I stay where I am, a lowly newsroom assistant, with less stress and crying but more boredom?

3.I just got a new apartment with wood floors, which are fantastic. However, every time I walk down the hallway I see a tumbleweed of cat hair go rolling across my path. Is there a solution to this problem that doesn’t involve me shaving my cats (although I am willing to do that if it comes down to it)?

Thank you for your time and quick attention to this matter. I’ll be waiting. Patiently.

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