What’s on My Couch?

I used to do these write-ups as a joke, but then I see that vloggers apparently do “What’s in My Purse?” videos that are even monetized.

This spinster is really out of the loop: I could be making money from being terminally boring?

So, inevitably, here’s what’s on my couch:

  • blood pressure cuff;
  • hydrocortisone;
  • glasses case;
  • box of Cheristin flea drops;
    • . . . but no kitten to put them on, because she somehow sensed my intent to dose her and made herself scarce;
  • flannel shirt from 90s;
    • . . . aka a sitting-on-my-butt cardigan;
  • mail I don’t want to deal with;
  • Ulta receipt;
    • no, I did not actually need any of the things I purchased;
      • except I did throw out all my old eye makeup and replace it with new and hopefully non-bacteria-culture’d stuff, so I’m being responsible!
  • kitten’s second favorite fish toy;
    • . . . favorite fish toy is in critical condition and is awaiting surgery;
      • . . . and yes, that means that I’m going to try to sew up a cat toy;
  • current reading;

And me. I am also on the couch. The kitten is crouching on the arm of a chair, radiating apprehension. The flea drops have truly caused a disturbance in the force, and I have no idea how she learned to be so stubborn (ahem).

Going to sit back and wait for the $$$ to roll in.


What’s the Opposite of Catnip?

The kitten does not yet understand that we sleep at night and play during the day. Sure, cats are nocturnal, but she’s still at the stage where she’s apparently chugging Red Bull at 2 am.

Last night was especially bad. She hates everyone who isn’t me, and she hides from any street noise. There was a neighborhood Mardi Gras parade, and, needless to say, that was loud– so she spent the entire day under the bed.

Random picture I took in New Orleans. Not during Mardi Gras. Obviously.

So, today, in an attempt to coax her out from under the bed, I got on the floor and sang “Desperado,” as one does. She seemed weirded out by this, so I carefully explained that I wasn’t singing the Eagles version. No Eagles in my home.

Oddly, that didn’t help. I thought it was a necessary clarification, because I can understand hiding under the bed if the alternative is listening to the Eagles.

The standoff continues. I’ll be the first to crumble, because it’s hard to stand when your feet have been the subject of kitten attacks. Kittens are extremely sharp creatures.

Also, I didn’t take my propranolol today, because I’m convinced it’s what’s causing the extreme fatigue. However, it also enables me to stand up. POTS problems: choose your poison.

For those of you on the edge of your seats, it was the Clint Black version, which is really quite good:

This is one cheesy “video,” though.

World’s Smallest Record Player

Back in the early aughts, I had a poppin’ blog that I updated faithfully. It was sprinkled with bon mots and witty observations.

What the hell happened to me?

Lots of things. I left grad school and my (then) dream career. I went through a further decade-plus of an untreated eating disorder. I had lots of psychiatric treatments, some of them on the more experimental side.

I spent a full decade in free-fall, working a job that was going nowhere, and I made no moves to change my situation. I can’t honestly remember a lot of this time. I quit watching TV (unless it was HGTV, which I could stare at for hours on end), quit reading, quit going to the movies– quit going anywhere. There are only a few pictures of me from this time. I could go on, but it’s bleak.

Picture of flat tire. The tire is very flat. Wheel spokes and rim are silver with a blue "Ford" logo in the center. Wheel rests on cement.
Flat tire, metaphor for my life, something something I don’t know, symbolism.

About 15 years out, the thing that depresses me most is that I lost my ability to write. It’s gone. No more creativity, no more of the aforementioned witticisms. I’ve gotten my voice back when it comes to speaking aloud, but, as far as writing goes, it’s gone.

I have a lot to be grateful for, but I miss my voice.


But I’m not going to miss a golden opportunity to share this favorite tune, which is also known as “STOP SINGING THAT! DON’T SING THAT! THE LUMBERJACK SONG BETTER NOT BE NEXT!”

And Other Spinster Stereotypes

I was in a car accident Tuesday evening. But I’m not here to write a saga about an accident: I’m here to talk about the accident as it relates to my kitten’s feelings.


I’d worked late Tuesday night and already knew that Lucy’s dinner would be late and that I would be in trouble for that. I planned to pick up her food on the way home, but that obviously got derailed.

Flash-forward to me getting home quite late and sans car. Lucy emerged and acted– not kidding here– like she’d been kicked repeatedly and could never trust me again, not ever, WHY ARE YOU STARVING ME MOM? [Note: Lucy speaks in all caps.]

I was out of Purina and walked to the grocery store– remember, just having been in a car wreck, complete with totaled car and airbag injuries– to get her food. Because she’d already made me feel so guilty, I also purchased a toy to help apologize.

This fish is less than a week old, but it has Seen Things.

Then she sulked for a full 24 hours because her dinner was late– because Mom had a wreck.

Lucy the Emo Kitten would like to remind you that all she does is suffer, basically.

So: I have no car. Total loss. Dealing with insurance. Didn’t even know where my car was towed. Needed groceries. Needed ride to work. Sore. More injured than I’ve let on to people IRL. Not sleeping. Worrying about getting behind at work.

But first things first: placate the 6.6 lb. kitten, who has been acting tragic since Tuesday night (including going on hunger strike Wednesday), in spite of getting all the attention, several new toys, etc., etc.

In the meantime, I’m catching up on work from home and have a heating pad wrapped around my neck. But: stereotypical spinster lyfe priorities must prevail.

I will be groveling if you need me.

Hashtag Motivation

Another one-woman dialogue.

Sensible Me:  Go to that coffee place you liked.  You enjoyed it so much last time.

Eeyore Me:  I would have to get dressed in real clothes and fix the Eraserhead situation.


Current hair/life/lyfe situation.

Sensible Me: . . . and in what world is grooming when you’re depressed a bad thing?

Eeyore Me:  My world, dumbass.  Also, get it?  I’m a donkey and hence, by definition, an ass.  Heh.

Sensible Me:  If donkey puns are your current plan for the day, you really need to get out.  You like books, you like coffee.  What’s the problem?

Eeyore Me:  Social anxiety, food fears, feelings that I should be working, feelings that I have not earned the right to relax, fear of passing out while in public . . .

Sensible Me:  You are catastrophizing but also not.  Most of those fears would automatically resolve if you actually got out the door, though.

Eeyore Me:  Seriously, have you seen my hair?

Sensible Me:  It’s very Pat Benatar.

All pause to peek out the curtains, having hear bass– even over the synthesizer in that video.

Sensible Me:  Sounds like the frat boys on the corner are having a pre-game party.  And the game doesn’t start for four and a half hours.

Eeyore Me:  [string of profanities]

Sensible Me:  Shall we dress and fix the hair situation?

Eeyore Me:  Yeah.  I mean, how hard can it be?  I’ll grab the hairdryer, you find something that looks reasonably clean.

Sensible Me:  We’re the same person, so I don’t know about this division of labor thing . . . screw it, whatever works.

~exeunt, which I think is actually plural, but we’re obviously already working with a low bar here~





Honey, What’s for Dinner?

I dedicate this post to everyone who has ever told me how wonderful it must be to eat whatever I want and not have to argue about what’s for dinner.  A special thanks, too, to everyone who likes to point out how nice it must be to come home and not have to talk to anyone.


 SETTING:  the couch

CHARACTERS:  Standard Me, Overthinking Me, and Snarky Me


STANDARD ME:  It’s past 6, and I really need to eat dinner.  The two Fig Newtons that I had for breakfast/snack/lunch/snack seem to be wearing off.

SNARKY ME:  Here we go again.

STANDARD ME:  So, I have five apps on my phone for food delivery.  Delivery sounds good.

Intermission:  15 minutes of scrolling through menus, looking at prices, calculating delivery times

OVERTHINKING ME:  I ordered dinner once already this week, and I didn’t budget for that– let alone two deliveries.  I could go pick something up, but there’s a storm.  And that’s still paying for food when I have things in the freezer.

SNARKY ME:  What you have in the freezer is 6 identical frozen dinners.  The exact.  same.  thing.  you eat for dinner every day.  And you wonder why you have taste fatigue?

STANDARD ME:  I should really just heat up a frozen dinner.  I don’t have anything to go with it, but I’ll just eat some almonds or something.  All the delivery times are over an hour.  But let me scroll through menus again and maybe just plan fantasy meals.  Like what I would order if I were going to order.

OVERTHINKING ME:  You’re spending so much time obsessing over these menus.  If you’d ordered back when you first thought of this, the food would be here by now.  And you haven’t made a move to walk to the kitchen.  Let’s check the bank account balance, just to prove that ordering delivery is an unnecessary extravagance.

Intermission:  15 minutes examining minutiae of bank statements.  Notice that my transactions actually reflect my baseline boring self.  Worry.  Calculate how much I spend on medical bills.  Chastise myself for not being healthier, because being healthy would really save a lot of money.

SNARKY ME:  Remember how this conversation started out about whether or not to get delivery?

STANDARD ME:  To be honest, no.  I forgot about food while I was double-checking an autodraft.

SNARKY ME:  A draft might improve your current situation, if you get my drift.

OVERTHINKING ME:  But the weather is bad, and there’s standing water in the streets, and I could end up driving drunk, get arrested, lose my job . . .

SNARKY ME:  I was kidding, but also:  QED.

STANDARD ME:  My stomach is growling.  Delivery times have dropped by 7 minutes, but that still pushes dinner late.  Recounting my internal debate may also have slowed down the process.  Hey, successfully put off making a decision!  High five!

SNARKY ME:  (facepalm)

OVERTHINKING ME:  Okay, for real, you have got to eat.  You have a meeting tomorrow and need to fuel your brain.  What if you passed out during a meeting?  It could happen!  And it would be 100% your fault, because you can’t figure out dinner.  You are going to lose your job because you can’t figure out what to eat for dinner.

Curtain drops as debate continues with no end in sight.