New Phone, Who Dis?

How do you survive without a cell phone?

Anyone else feel like their mini computer (that also acts as an old fashioned voice-to-voice communication device) may as well be a required apparatus for existence these days?

First phone, what dis?

If you don’t, I envy you. My cell phone is somewhere in No Man’s Land. I have been without it for a whopping 84 hours at this point and I feel isolated (which makes that a first world problem, how basic can I get?) and out of sorts with life. I slept on the couch when I realized my one digital alarm clock I still own no longer worked, setting the oven timer to awake me from a semi-sleep for work (you know the kind of sleep where you don’t sleep because you are worried that you will over sleep, so you can’t sleep).

Sleeping motherfucking Beauty.

That nifty “find your phone” app only works when your cell phone is alive and kicking. Mine is unequivocally deceased.

Me. Without a cell phone.

Thankfully (or maybe forcefully), I committed to Apple a company of technology products that allows me the capacity to receive text messages to my computer. Realizing my phone was gone, I was able to message my folks on Facebook, letting them know I was still in the Mini Manse with the Pussy Posse.

Only available through my office landline.

I haven’t ever had much luck with technology (I took a hammer to a Canon printer in college after it failed the 1,734,902 time I was trying to print a paper. The hammer was therein referred to as “Canon Killer”).

Technology is hard.

Upon getting my first cell phone, it was simply a new means of applied science for which I could fail. There was the time my phone accidentally got ran over by a boyfriend picking me up for supper.

Let’s just stay in and have some wine.

And the time I lost a fucking phone in the Mini Manse (where it has yet to be recovered). I retraced every single high-heeled step from the prior night (knowing it was in the manse because I’d ordered a pizza upon arrival home), morphing into a Tasmanian devil tearing the Mini Manse apart. After five hours of scouring my trash cans, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom drawers, couch cushions, the piano, under the bed, in the freezer, through dirty laundry, in the pussies food bowls, behind every piece of furniture under the roof, outside of the balcony AND through my car, I looked like a deranged lunatic in dire need of a bottle of booze.

Luck of the Irish my ass

Anybody seen a pink sparkly phone?

How ever could I survive without my pussy picture taker?

Another phone debacle took place when my phone screen literally faded to black, therefore staying connected to WiFi, enabling me to communicate through my iWatch but unable to use the device. I looked like I was in a perpetual play state of FBI agent.

Not so secret agent woman, as I tended to scream at my wrist.

Once again, I was relegated to the old fashioned phone cord plugged into a wall piece of equipment that’s utterly foreign to many peeps today.

So very busy, chained to my landline.

Upon realization I played David Copperfield with yet another cell phone this weekend, I unsuccessfully retraced steps, places, nooks and crannies in Music City. WHAT. THE. FUCK. was I going to do?!

How would I capture the every day beauty of my pussies?

Yes. The world needs a good morning pic from Rocky.

How would I document my uneventful weekend debauchery?

Yes. People need to know what First Mate and I do all.the.time.

What if the Iowa twins wanted to FaceTime during my seconds, minutes, hours, days without a device?!

Whatever would I use to pull up a photo of the actor who played Alf’s dad to compare to people who look like Scooby?

Yes. This is important work.

How in the fuck would I paint my lipstick on (at the fucking table – yes, I have the audacity) without using my cell as a mirror?

Taking high maintenance to a whole new level.

The agony of feeling so helpless with the scenarios that I missed capturing with every waking second was almost unbearable (I mean, my ultra, beyond dramatic side could be showing its ass). And then, I received my new phone today right around noon.

Eighty four hours after a true first world nightmare.

This was an early Christmas miracle, indeed.

Call me!



High Maintenance Pussy Hoarder

It’s all fun and games being a crazy cat lady until you have two high maintenance pussies under one roof.

Crazier by the second over here in my neck of Nashville's cat hoarding woods.

Crazier by the second over here in my neck of Nashville’s cat hoarding woods.

For those of you who don’t know, His Royal Majesty Ted and I took in a soaking wet kit cat that shivered on our doorstep one 15 degree evening in January (seriously, could he have picked a better door?). We dubbed him New Cat so we wouldn’t fall in love and want to keep him under our roof.

Pain in the ass acquisition

Pain in the ass acquisition.

Of course all of the kings horses and all of the kings men knew that once the drawbridge to my mini manse opened for New Pussy, he was basically going to remain in our kingdom forever.


For the 1,578th time, you’re welcome for the warm house and constant food!

I always thought Teddy was the most high maintenance feline I’d ever encounter. When I rescued him, he had an upper respiratory infection, ring worm and somehow developed an allergy to chicken (so his bags of food cost a measly $60). But my the little love of my life has proven to be worth every precious penny with which I’ve parted.


The million dollar pussy.

Enter New Cat.

When the vet checked him out initially, he’d been neutered (meaning someone dumped him which pisses me off beyond explanation) and was granted an overall clean bill of health. Then two weeks ago, he showed up with a funky eye one morning which had me racing to the vet, as I was worried whatever he had was going to jump into Ted’s eyes (and of course I wanted NC to feel better).

Pink eye

Pussy pink eye.

This tuxedo cat was in such a panic about being at the vet, he climbed all over me like a jungle gym to avoid the cold examination table.

Cry all you want. No one is going to help you.

Meow at the top of your lungs all you want. No one is going to help you.

We left the doctor with eye gel, oral medicine and a head cone which has made for some of the best entertainment (have you ever witnessed a cat walking backward? It’s how NC maneuvers around the mini manse with his cone) I’ve seen recently.

Cone sucks.

Conehead backing away.

At NC’s checkup this past Saturday, it was discovered that this little money sucker somehow developed an ear infection which requires drops that I had to pick up at an actual pharmacy. Wanna know how to feel like an asshole at Walgreens? Drop off a prescription for a nameless animal.

When I heard “New Cat, your prescription is ready” over the intercom, I kinda wanted to go down the proverbial rabbit hole and stay there forever as what self-respecting cat lady doesn’t give her feline a proper name?

Hi. I'm a cat lady. And yes, I'm crazy.

Hi. I’m the cat lady. And yes, I’m crazy.

The best part about my recently acquired sick pussy is giving him three different medications while he’s sporting a cone. If you’ve never given a cat ear drops, eye drops and oral medication twice a day while he’s wearing plastic around his face, you’re really missing out in life.

It’s the best.time.ever.

Although New Cat has only added to my already high maintenance household (I mean between Ted and myself…) he’s proven to be beyond thankful in regard to his recent medical care and rags to riches lifestyle turnaround. He now shows his appreciation backward as he can’t figure out how to snuggle up under my chin with his cone. So he does it in the reverse.

Cone snuggle

The reverse snuggle. A new nightly ritual.

Cat back pack.

That carries on far longer than it should.

Know of any other high maintenance, homeless cats looking for a home with a less than rich blonde caretaker? Please, send them my way.

I seem to be collecting them…