#12 "It's Elementary my dear Ananda" -Sherlock the cat speaks out

Okay, so my plan to blog often hasn't worked well. As odd as it sounds, while my writing at work has gotten much better (thanks to lots of practice and some great editors), I've had writer's block here at home. Sorry to disappoint, but instead of me blogging today, I think I’m going to let the newest member of Apartment 8 say a few words (she’s been begging to try out the keyboard since she moved in in January).

Enjoy y’all,

Brown-eyed girl

Mrrrraow! Hello Internet peoples! Hey, check it out, my meowing turns into English when I use these click things that Ananda’s always hitting. Of course, they don't sound as cool as my claws on a hard wood floor, but few things do.

My favorite spot: curled on the back of the couch

I’m Sherlock, the world’s cutest Calico kitten, and I’m actually Ananda’s boss. That’s right, boss. I know she thinks she’s in charge, but it’s me. I’m a diabolical mastermind and I’ve manipulated her into thinking she’s making her own decisions about me and my welfare. It’s fitting punishment for the auburn-haired person who stuck me in a cage and put me in a big moving box of metal for 5 hours.

It was horrible. I made sure she knew it by meowing frequently and scratching anything that came close to the bars of my prison. Once she let me out….I felt like Dorothy’s “We’re not in Kansas” anymore moment. Of course, being a smart, savvy feline, I’d never be caught talking to a DOG.

I got lost in her huge people-house a few times. Why should the food bowl be allllll the way in the kitchen? I want a food bowl in every  room. 

[Ananda here: Sherlock, no. I won’t give you a bowl in every room. You eat too much as it is. You're a 6 month old cat and you weigh at least 12 pounds.]

I discovered that when Ananda leaves for the day I can do whatever I want for HOURS. That’s right, I can shed all over the couch,  poop on the floor to make sure she remembers how to clean up, dump my food bowl over and make a mess, knock over the trash can, shred all the papers I can get my paws on…it’s a good life.

Of course, if I feel like waiting until she gets home to do all of that….I get treats because she thinks I’ve been good. (Little does she know I’ve planned it. I can refrain from pooping on the floor long enough to get a treat…I do know where the litter box is, I just prefer not to use it.)

Lately, I’ve discovered a new realm of play toys: things in the bathroom. That’s right humans, I can now knock over makeup, jump in that funny persons’ litter box, get stuck in the sink and get lost in a bathtub with the best of them. 

[Ananda again: Sherlock, it’s not my fault you’re so fat you FILL UP THE SINK. It’s also not my fault that you think it’s fun to jump in the toilet. I promise you this cat, one of these days you’ll try that and I won’t stop you from falling in. When you’re all wet AND stuck in there…I’m going to laugh and post photos to Facebook].

I also enjoy climbing up the inside of Ananda’s dresser. She can’t find me and I can claw at all of her t-shirts and pajama bottoms. Meow-ha-ha, especially when I get myself “stuck” in there and make her late for work. This neat little trick I discovered after she took me to the vet and they stuck me with things and shaved my beautiful white fur off my stomach. She might think she broke my spirit with the cone-of-shame, but I will have the last meow.

Of course, I can be sweet. I like to snuggle on the couch sometimes, and I like to sneak up behind her then start purring right at her ear. And I’m very helpful when she’s cooking. I show her exactly where to stand by standing there first.

Meow, okay…I’m bored with this clicky thing. Besides, you people aren’t smart enough to fully understand my complex mind anyway. I’m off for a snack… if I look sweet maybe I’ll even get a treat from the person. 

 [Ananda note to close this out: I'm aware she poops on purpose. The "treats" she likes so much are good for her as they lessen shedding, promote good dental health, and make her fur shiny. Now who gets the last meow, kitten? ME.]

What? Don't people enjoy curling up on the couch?

#11 Take me out to the triple-digit ball game!

I'm not a sports person, so I really had no business covering the AABC Mickey Mantle World Series in McKinney a couple weeks ago.

They sent me anyway, as they needed a heat-related story for the coverage of the triple-digit heat streak (which was broken 1 day before it tied the all-time record. Boo that).

The following post is my acount of what happened when they sent a non-sports fan to the ballgame:

It was hot. My trusty hardware store thermometer read 106 in the shade when the 2 p.m. game started. I don't know about you, but the sun and I don't get along, I'm fair skinned and freckled, so SPF 50 was a necessity, and I sure hope the boys on the field had some.

As parents settled in for the long haul, and the rather cute boys running the PA system started introducing players and positions -of which I know nothing about-- I setttled in for the long haul too and tried to at least look informed. I  think I probably failed at that, but the parents seated around me were nice enough to let me think I blended.

I didn't know then what you called the dirt part of the diamond (the infield, see, I know it now), but this poor guy ran out there at 1:30 and wet it down, he also wet down the circle where the pitcher stands (pitcher's mound, yeah, yeah..at least I know he's a pitcher), and the triangle-ish area where the batter/catcher/umpire stand (home plate?).  By the time the first inning came to a close (at that point, I had no idea what actually makes an inning end), the infield (look at me with my new knowledge) was dry again. Clouds of red dust rose up from the scorched earth everytime a player...ran/took/stole/slid (?) into a base.

The parents, though they appeared to be melting, along with their other children who were red-faced from running in the now-107-degree-climate that was the bleachers (metal. with a metal overhang), were still finding the energy to shout and cheer for the boys in white (both teams wore white uniforms, this led to much Ananda confusion as it was sometimes hard to see if a jersey had the bigger logo of the Canadian team, or the smaller, two letter logo of the Indiana team).

By the time the second inning rolled to an end, I was totally confused as to which team was ahead 2-0, and couldn't figure out why the coach of the Canadian team was sometimes standing in front of the dugout of the Indiana team and vice versa (post-game theory: does it have something to do with which team is batting, and which team is pitching??)

As people left the stands for water and popsicles, I was wondering where the stereotypical hot dogs were, I guess it was too hot for them. The stands did have their fair share of peanut and sunflower shells littering them, guess popsicles were too childish for the fans of the previous game. Some of the parents were super-hi-tech and were keeping track of the teams stats and the pitcher's/batters speeds with one of those radar-gun things. It was pretty intense looking. But I was informed that at 16 years of age, as the boys in the tournament were, college scouts are already looking, as are some MLB scouts. (MLB =Major League Baseball, I knew this before I attended the game).

By the start of the impossibly-long third inning I had sort of figured out what the numbers on the score board meant, and I was about 90% sure the Canadian team was winning (based solely off fan cheers). In my defense, the teams' scores were labeled "Home" and "Visitor." As both teams were visiting, I just didn't get it. The third inning included such high-octane moments as the Canadian team's score going from 7 to 8-9-0 (the scoreboard doesn't go past nine) in about a minute (what do you call it when everyone makes it around the field like that, including the batter?) and the Indiana team getting annoyed enough at that to score their only two runs in the entire game.

The fourth and fifth innings came and went with no change in score, but as the fiftth inning ended, the Canadians cheered and the Indiana fans were slightly subdued. I couldn't figure out why at first. Then I realized there was some sort of mercy rule, and as the score was 10-2, the officials had ended the game at five innings. The players shook hands and the stands quickly emptied as people went in search of air-conditioning.

My thermometer spiked to 111 degrees walking back to the car (it was on the top of my open bag, which was hanging off my arm). It was hot. And that's an understatement. When I got to the parking lot I stripped off any piece of extraneous clothing I could (I had a shirt over a tank top, with shorts. I'd changed before leaving work because I had no desire to be a victim of heat stroke). Of course, the 40 minute drive back to the office with A/C on high the whole way helped out, as did the office itself: a balmy 70 degrees, I didn't bother to change out of the shorts/tank top combo, though I did add a second tank top so I didn't look so underdressed. It's the only day I haven't been cold at work. Though I was told I didn't look nearly as bad as they'd thought I would after being in the heat from 12-4:30 pm. (Goody for that?)

The story I wrote sounds like I'm aware of the game (thanks to an editor who does actually care a bit about the sport), and I'm more aware now than I was in the previous 22 years of my life. However, I think I either need to purchase a copy of "sportswriting/sports for dummies" or spend more time in sports bars asking cute guys what the rules of the game/s are!

#10 Catch-ups and a sneak-peak at what I have to write about

I hadn't realized that the last post I made was 1. in February, and 2. was about my Honors Thesis. Wow, so much has happened since then: I stress fractured a bone in my foot, I got a Fellowship at a major newspaper for the next year, I finished the Thesis and presentend it, I GRADUATED, I MOVED to Dallas, and I'm in the work force instead of being a student.

That's the quick update, the following anecdotes and life happenings will be documented in subsequent posts, but I wanted you to know what's coming down the pipeline for your enjoyment (if my life has to be this nuts, someone should at least get a laugh out of it, right??).

Stay-tuned for further updates on the crazy things that happen to me on a semi-regular basis.  :)


*Note: these won't necessarily be posted in the order they happened.*

- Baseball games: I wrote about one for the newspaper, I'll write about it here for the general public's enjoyment. (Post # 11: Take me out to the triple-digit ball game)

- Pigs as pets: My brother is now the proud father of a pig named Zoey, I'll share her story. Update: He's also rescued a small feral hog named "Pevo," her story will be added to Zoey's.

- Moving into my apartment: It was a lovely little misadventure into the world of leases, maintenance, and renter's remorse. I do love my apartment [now] though.

-The foot fracture that just keeps on giving: The tragic tale of how I broke my foot and it's not-quite-healing despite months of rest. Update: New doctor, new walking cast, new game plan.

-Raccoons and their rescuers: This is another tale from the work files, it's a doozy of a story though.

-Bobcats and their right to life: Once again, a tale from the work files, it's another must-read.

-Coachroaches who ride yoga balls: another "you can't make this stuff up" tale of the roach who took a ride across my apartment, and the lengths I went to ensuring his demise.

-A Pennsylvania Wedding: One of my college roommates and I went to the wedding of my swing dance partner and his wonderful fiancee in Pennsylvania, it was a great trip and I'll share the highlights with you.

- Snakes inside my Grandmother's Texas home: I hate snakes, so does most of my family. But when serpents invade my Grandma's house, there's truly nothing sacred anymore. This will be my secondhand account of the horror.

-Oh my goodness I'm not in college anymore: the obligatory "OH NO WHAT HAVE I DONE I'M NOT READY TO BE A GROWN UP YET" post. I promise it'll be hilarious.

#9 I've misplaced my Thesis Advisor.....again?

So, here's the thing - I've lost my Thesis advisor, again...

I had a Thesis advisor once, I called him Dr. Evil. Then, he decided to leave (and while I understand his very good list of reasons as to why, I'm still mildly bitter about the leaving me). Yes, that's right, he left me.

I got a new Thesis advisor, who also heads up Tiger Nation, and things were going well. My research was wrapping itself up nicely, I had started the mental process of self-loathing and revulsion that ultimately snaps and turns me into a whirlwind writing machine, he was on board with my project; yes,  it was going well indeed. But then I started turning in pages and somehow lost him.

I blame the Internet. He was fine when last I saw him crossing campus, but then I e-mailed him and I am convinced that when he opened my message it sucked him into a vortex of never-ending information that is so overwhelmingly HUGE that he cannot determine which way is up and therefore cannot escape and critique my partially-written thesis.

Or, perhaps he found out that I root shamelessly for the University of Texas at Austin's Longhorns in football and decided to punish me, as he attended their arch rivals, the University of A&M at College Station's Aggies.

Or..maybe he found that I'm not a huge sports fan, and I only watch and root for UT during football season out of respect for my Grandfather (someone who trust me, you do not wish to irritate or root against).

Or, perhaps he was contemplating reasons two and three when reason one, the big, bad Internet came on the scene and swallowed him whole.

Or, perhaps I really need to get more sleep and stop thinking of crazy conspiracy theories as to why I've misplaced my second thesis advisor.

Or, better yet, I should find some computer and Internet savvy friends and mount an Internet search-and-rescue party to save him from the Web he's caught in (unless he's somehow stuck in a virtual College Station, then I think I'd let him stay stuck)?

Nope, I've got it, I will write up more pages of Thesis, and hopefully, when I send them across they will take the same path as the first two sets and this will confuse the Internet into letting him back out into the real world where he can read and critique my Thesis. Yes, that's it. That's the new plan....Or.....is it?

#8 Saving Face: the battle of the bills.

As previously published in The Signal of Ouachita Baptist University, where I'm News/Features Co-Editor:

       You can't spend one-third of a $10 bill. However, you can spend one-half of a $10 bill if that half includes half the face of Alexander Hamilton (the dead guy on it).
       How do I know this this random fact, you might be tempted to ask? I know this because ATMs are out to get me.
       Last week, I used the U.S. Bank ATM on campus to pull cash for my trip to Washington D.C. Knowing I would need real money to pay for things like taxis, metro fare cards, and Dr Pepper, I asked the machine for $70.
       It hummed and thumped and tick-tick-ticked as it counted what I naively thought was my money. Then, it spit out three pristine, brand new, never spent twenties, and one-third of a new, pristine ten dollar bill.
       One-third - as in slightly less than one half. Clearly, this was some grave mistake on the part of the ATM, right? Wrong. When I called to let U.S. Bank know of the issue, they explained - after several minutes on hold while they discussed the issue and how to fix it - that, as it was my bank [as in my bank back home in sweet, sunny Texas] that would need to get the $10 back for me, I would have to deal with them.
        I was mad, but I called my bank too.
        After about an hour of hold music interspersed with re-explanation of the situation and the e-mail of one piece of paperwork, I was done.
        Just kidding. The form had to be filled out and signed, then faxed to them (thanks to the marvelous folks at Student Services, it didn't take too long).
        The hard copy. with a copy of my ATM receipt, but not the offending bill, needed to be mailed as well.
         Long story short, I will eventually be getting $10 credited to my account, but I'm now wondering, if one can spend one-half a $10, can one spend it twice? I'm going to assume there's a rule that prevents that from being legal, thought I've yet to research it. (I'll work on that this week.)
         Sometimes the truth is just too complicated to make up.

# 7 Valentine's Day a.k.a. Singledom Blues

I have been single for 21 Valentine’s Days.

Granted, the first 12 or so didn’t really matter, I was a kid. Even then, in high school it wasn’t a huge deal, but once I hit college, it was a big deal. A very big deal.

My freshman year I saw a guy carry his girlfriend around all day. Yes, all day. Yes, you read that right, carry, as in her feet were not on the ground. How do I know it was an all day thing?

Simple. While I was trudging the slow walk of a single 18-year-old girl with a heavy backpack, I passed them three or four times. He had her backpack on with his own and was carrying her like a guy does in movies. I wanted to trip him.

My sophomore year I was in Spain, studying abroad. Spanish is the language of love, and Spain the country of PDA-to-the-max so Valentine’s Day rolled around and merely meant the girls on the street were sporting red lace thongs instead of black, and everything else was as normal.

Last year, My suite bought flowers for each other. Put together into one big vase, we had a really nice bouquet, and the half price candy from Walmart also helped.

This year, I don’t have flowers, my mother’s Valentine’s candy for me won’t arrive until Thursday, my life in general is skewed something crazy, and I’m sick of seeing couples. Everywhere.

I feel like all but a handful of my friends are dating, engaged, or married, and are off being couples on the over-commercialized day of Saint Valentine. And I’m jealous.

I currently have a love/hate relationship with Valentine and his lousy-but-lovely day.

You’ve got to understand something about me for the statement I just made to make sense. Bear with me and I will explain it to you.

I love romance, romantic comedies, spur-of-the-moment dates, just because flowers, chocolates when you’re sad, chick flicks, happy endings, and everything in between.

I hate sitting on the sidelines watching my friends and classmates, and former friends and classmates living out their own modern day fairytales, and I realize that sounds jaded.

Trust me when I say I’m truly happy for them, I love that they’ve all been so richly blessed. I just can’t help but sit here and wonder, when is it my turn?

And yes, there are guys I probably could have dated –if I’d dropped an already lower-than-it-used-to-be standard. (It’s got 6 things right now. Christian, Funny, Smart, Taller-than-me, Dark Hair, and a Love of Travel. That’s it. I feel that that isn’t unreasonable. I really don’t think I need to dumb it down or change it.) So yes, I’m technically single by choice on my 21^st Valentine’s Day, but is that really even a choice? Hold out for a guy who fits a simple list or date whatever is on the street? Fail and not cool.

So for right now, I hate Valentine’s Day. I hate it. I love the idea, and the tradition, but I hate the practicing of it. Of feeling like there is something wrong with me for the 24 hours a year that everyone I know (or so it seems) are paired up in the little cutesy couples I write about in my short stories, or wondering what I’m doing wrong that I don’t get my mini-happy-ending, etc. etc.etc…

For right now, I’m glad it ends in an hour, that the pink and red and white roses will die and be thrown out, that the teddy bears will lose their bows and get worn down on someone else’s pillow, and that the candy will be eaten. Because that means I have 364 days left to be my usual self, to be okay with being single (well, mostly okay with it. Let’s face it, I’d love it if a guy, just one, would step up to the plate and say “hey. You should date me.” And yes, I may or may not have a guy in mind, or at least…a type of guy, or a list…pick one. It’s potentially right).

Because right now, the only thing wrong with little old me, is a little old day named after a dead guy and the overcommercialization that has turned it into every taken girl's dream and this single girl's nightmare.

~Nanda

#6: A Short Story based on a book prompt.

 Yesterday I unexpectedly found myself the owner of The McSweeney's Joke Book of Book Jokes. While avoiding my thesis I decided to attempt a story based on a cheesy prompt found in one of the segments. The resulting story can be found below. Enjoy!

~Brown-eyed girl

Prompt: #11. write  a short story in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

Evelyn smiled. Brett would be home soon, the cad. He didn’t know she knew about his latest indiscretion, the one involving the yoga instructor from his gym. She had thought long and hard about the proper way to punish him, until at 4:20 a.m.when she had suddenly found the most brilliant idea ever –she would punish him by saying nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Brett’s Mercedes pulled into the drive; he parked the sleek black sports car and approached the house. He was holding roses, and a bottle of what she assumed was wine. Apparently he guessed she knew…she wondered what had given her away, she had been completely normal when they spoke on the phone that morning –when he called to say a late work meeting had kept him from making it home the night before.
Work meeting. She snorted derisively over the mashed potatoes she was making. As if she’d believe that excuse again. Brett entered the kitchen, and offered her the flowers with a shrug.
“Here. I figured you were past due for something out of the ordinary.” He said offhandedly.
Evelyn was outwardly silent, but inside she was a seething beast of rage. Out-of-the-ordinary would be him not sneaking around with other women.
“Why won’t you take them? Aren’t lilies still your favorite flowers?” He asked. Offering them to her again.
She shrugged, and took the bouquet, careful not to touch Brett’s hand as she did so. Evelyn set the flowers into a cut-glass vase she took down from a shelf, added warm water, then walked over and set them just off center in the middle of the dining room table.
“Sorry again about that meeting; couldn’t get out of it. Upper-level stuff you know.” Brett’s voice sounded slightly concerned.
Evelyn smiled coolly, stirred the potatoes and turned up the heat on the corn.
She was taking the dinner rolls out of the oven when he walked up behind her. She spun quickly around, holding the hot pan in front of her.
“Woah…honey that’s hot!” said Brett, narrowly avoiding the pan.
She nodded, and dumped the rolls into a basket. Evelyn then proceeded to set the rest of the food into various platters and trays, ferrying it quickly to the table. She took the bottle of wine he had brought with him and two glasses in last. Setting them down by the head of the table with a thump, she looked at him and motioned to the corkscrew already at his place.
“Okay Evy, sure I’ll open the wine.” He said, sounding a little unsure.
She stepped out of his reach and walked to her own seat, at the far end of the large table, as he poured.
“Here you go honey,” he said, walking toward her with a glass of California red.
She pointed at the table in front of her then got up and walked back to the kitchen. She came back carrying a pot roast, already cut into pieces.
She calmly set a large portion on Brett’s plate, then did the same for her own and set the roast down on the table.
“Evelyn, honey? Are you just going to not talk to me for some reason tonight?” Brett sounded both annoyed and a little miserable.
Good, she thought. He should feel miserable for once.
She didn’t bother to respond at all to his question, but began eating her dinner instead. After a brief pause Brett picked up his fork and began to eat too.
About three minutes of total silence later, he started to talk nervously.
“This is really great Evy, I was just craving your pot roast the other day. It’s like you’re a mind reader.”
Silence emanated from the opposite end of the table.
“And these potatoes, they’re just perfect. I love how you get them so smooth every time.”
She put her fork down and took a drink, staring at him with expressionless eyes while she did so.
“Wow, that dress you have on tonight is a really something. It brings out the blue in your eyes. Is it new?”
She shrugged, and continued her meal.
“So, I was thinking maybe we could take a long weekend sometime soon, I’ve been working so hard on the merger and you’ve been busy with your design work, we’re overdue for a break. You think maybe we could go to the Florida Keys, or the Bahamas in a couple weeks?”
She blinked twice, then got up and took her plate to the kitchen.
“Baby? Don’t you think a nice, relaxing mini-vacation with sun, sand, and umbrella drinks would be fun?” Brett was really starting to get anxious. Evelyn had been mad at him before, but normally she screamed some, threw something of his out the second story onto the driveway, then got over it. If not, he bought her a car or a new piece of jewelry and she got over it. He had never, ever been greeted with silence before. And never, ever for this amount of time.
Evelyn came back and cleared dinner from the table, then brought in a large chocolate cake.
She set it down in the center of the table, then brought in a tray with coffee.
“You made cake too?” Brett asked in an incredulous tone. “Honey you really went to town tonight, any reason for all this?”
She set a large piece of cake in front of him, followed by a steaming cup of coffee.
“You know Evy, you really didn’t need to do all this, I mean I’m not complaining, it’s fantastic…but…it really is above and beyond…”
She sat down and began to attack her cake with a fork. Brett tried to appear as calm as his wife, but she was like ice, and he was sweating. He couldn’t figure out if she knew about Sally or not. Surely if she knew she would be yelling, or…would she? He wasn’t sure. The silence was killing him. He hated the absence of noise…he’d rather be yelled at.
Evelyn watched him like a cat watches a cornered mouse. She realized he was almost at the breaking point. However, she was unsure what he would do once broken, would he admit to the affair, or deny it and rant that she wasn’t speaking…or…what?
About a half hour later, when she had cleared the table of all but the remainder of the coffee, and he had used up all the compliments he could think of and ran out of words, she got her answer.
“Honey, honey you really gotta talk to me. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did to deserve the silent treatment.”
She stirred her coffee.
“Alright, Evelyn I need to tell you something…but, don’t get mad alright…okay baby?” Brett was sweating profusely now, he was out of options. He had to tell her the truth…because he couldn’t deal with this silent person sitting opposite him any longer.
She shrugged and toyed with the knife she’d used to cut the cake.
“Okay, I’m just going to say this fast and get it over with. I’ve been seeing my yoga instructor’s therapist. She went with me the first couple of times, but just as moral support. I wasn’t having an affair. I was getting help. I didn’t come home last night because I was having an overnight session, the clinic was monitoring my sleep patterns and REM cycles. The doctor thinks maybe I’ve got an imbalance that makes me..less than honest sometimes…”
Evelyn picked up the knife. Slowly. She stared at him over the lilies he’d bought her. Then…she sliced them off the stems and sat back down.
“Okay, okay, I was sleeping with my yoga instructor. There, I said it. Can you please just yell at me, and let me buy you a new Lexus so we can move on?” His voice began to crack…
“What else do you want from me? I admitted it. I’m an idiot. A repeated idiot..I…there….were….others…” And Brett began to recite all of the various and sundry women he’d messed with during his 15 year marriage to Evelyn. But what Brett didn’t know, was that this was Evelyn’s plan from the get-go. Her prenuptial agreement would not let her divorce Brett without his admission of guilt, something he had so far avoided doing. All she needed was proof of his wrong-doing to walk away with millions.
Brett came to the end of the list, then….he began to cry.
“Ev-ev-evylyn….. I-I-I’m sorry honey. I’m so sorry…I just…I can’t help it. I really love you, and only you…I just…I just get bored…I just…I don’t know….What can I do to fix it?”
Evelyn stood up. Handed the brokenly-sobbing Brett a box of Kleenex, and a manila envelope with her attorney’s number then walked to the bookshelves behind her, and turned off the camera. And then Evelyn smiled.
© 2010 Ananda M. Boardman