Interview With My Cat

I didn’t sleep last night.  This was for a number of reasons, but it was mainly because my cat is an asshole.  (It was also because the motion-sensitive light below my window kept strobing on and off, but this was because of my neighbour’s cat, so…still…cat.)

So, since I’m having trouble with making the words today, I think I’ll make someone else the star of the show today, since she clearly wanted to be the centre of attention ALL NIGHT LONG.

Her name is Balloons.  (It was actually supposed to be “Petunia”, but it devolved into “Tuney”, then “Tuney-Balloony” and I think you see where I’m going with this.)

Balloons is 15 years old.  She has never been sick a day in her life and has the energy of a 6-month-old kitten.  I think I need to start feeding her crap food.

Let’s find out what makes her tick.


This is where Her Highness receives admirers.

DREA:  So, Balloons, you had a lot of energy last night.  What was that about?

BALLOONS:  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

DREA:  Well, there was that time you headbutted my face 50 times in a row.  It kind of hurt.

BALLOONS:  You headbutted ME.

DREA:  I didn’t lick you on the nose.

BALLOONS:  I was tasting you so I can plan the condiments for when you die alone and I eat your face.

DREA:  How about at 3 am when I heard a weird noise and looked up to see you climbing the mirror over the dresser, where – to my knowledge – you’ve never been before?

BALLOONS:  Right.  I’ve never been up there before.

DREA:  No, really, what were you doing?

BALLOONS:  I do NOT have a secret compartment behind the mirror filled with state-of-the-art satellite communication equipment.  I just wanted to see if I’m still pretty.

DREA:  And you know, there’s a reason that toys that jingle are banned in the bedroom.  There is a toy basket filled with sleep-approved toys beside the chair.  Where did you even get that little ball with the bell inside?

BALLOONS:  Amazon.

DREA:  So that’s what those charges on my credit card were…

BALLOONS: Right.  Just innocent little cat toys.

DREA:  You know, the reason we can afford cat toys is because I work.  One thing you may not be aware of is that working is a lot easier if a person is well-rested.  And it’s not so easy to stay asleep with you hooking your paw around my wrist to lift my hand onto your head when you want pats.

BALLOONS:  I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Sometimes you pat me in your sleep.  I think you dream about me.  Besides, maybe I had a busy night and required therapeutic massage.

DREA:  I also noticed you vocalizing rather enthusiastically quite early this morning and thought maybe you were being like those cats we see on TV who wake their people when there’s a fire, but it turned out you were just excited about a poo.  I wonder if there’s a quieter way you could use the litter box at night?


DREA:   Okay, okay! Settle down!  Can you explain why you were also crying to your dish, which was still half-full?





On Telemarketers and Messing With Their Heads


[Another special post featuring Evil Drea]

Everyone hates telemarketers, right?  Not me.  I mean, I hate dealing with them, but as for the poor schmucks themselves, I always have this surge of pity for them.  If this is what they have to do for a living, well, let’s face it – their lives obviously suck worse than mine, right?  So who am I to judge?  I think I would honestly turn to prostitution first, personally.

Anyway, I got a call the other day from Janine of Safe Harbour Security.  She wanted to sell me a home security package.  Seemed like a nice enough girl.  But the thing is, and this I told to darling Janine, I work as an emergency dispatcher and while the company I work for mostly deals with the 911 system, we also offer our own alarm monitoring services.  So no offense, Janine, but if I get anyone to monitor my premises, it’s most likely going to be my own company.

This wasn’t enough for Janine.

I listened patiently for a while longer, but finally had to draw the line.  “I’m really sorry, but I’m just not interested.”


Janine:  “Ugh…WHATEVER!”  *slam*

It was while I was sitting there staring at the phone, dumbfounded, that I noticed the applause.

Evil Drea was at my side, giving a standing ovation, whistling through her fingers and waving a placard that read, “10!”  (Some of you who have been following along know that ‘whatever’ happens to be, along with some choice four-letter expletives, one of Evil Drea’s most favouritest words in the whole wide world.)

Now, normally it requires duct tape and various other restraints to force me to step aside and let Evil Drea do her thing.  But then I remembered Janine’s tone of voice and with a gracious bow, I backed off and let Evil Drea have the floor.

This is the letter she wrote to Safe Harbour Security later that day:

Safe Harbour Security

ATT:  Manager of Call Centre Operations

Dear Sir/Madam:

I am taking a moment to write to you in order to offer praise for one of your employees with whom I had the pleasure of doing business today.  Her name is Janine.  Unfortunately, my call from this humble telephone service representative ended before I was able to extract further identification information from her, so it is my hope that you will be able to determine who I am referring to without too much difficulty.

You should give this girl a raise!  Rarely in my experience have I encountered such a pleasant and dedicated telemarketer.  She made my day!  Her empathy and eloquence stopped me in my tracks.  I can only hope that she serves as a role model for all of your other staff, as I know she has what it takes to go far.

I am now discussing the possibility of using your service with the rest of my household, all because of Janine!  I can only hope that I shall have further dealings with this lovely lady in the future.

Please ensure that she is made aware of my high level of satisfaction.  While I know that her karma will reward her in time for her good works, sometimes it is just nice to know that you are appreciated.

Have a great day!

Yours Truly,

[Evil] Drea M.

Some days, it just doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Bow In Worship, Bitches…Evil Drea is Back!


Okay.  Yeah.  Soooo…the plan had been to let Nice Drea write this post, but she’s been nauseatingly happy lately and wanted to write about butterflies and rainbows and fucking lollypops or some such crap, so I – her sister, Evil Drea – was forced to intervene.

Nice Drea is now sitting in the corner where she belongs, gagged and duct-taped and glaring at me, and I am in full control of your vertical (and your horizontal, should you like it traditional.)

Welcome back to ME!


Dumbasses that don’t recycle.  Seriously, you morons – it’s not rocket science.  I’ve known 2-year-olds that were easier to train than some of you adults.  I mean, honestly, if the climate crisis were more selective, I wouldn’t care.  It’s not like the gene pool couldn’t use a little cleansing.  But it’s my fucking planet, too, and you’re stepping on my toes when you chuck that bottle in the black bag, baby.   So I’m telling you now and don’t make me say it again.  RECYCLE – LEARN HOW!

Shared office equipment with mystery keyboard gunk.  Use a freakin’ napkin, for god’s sake.

The men I date stealing all of my cutlery to do hot-knives.  Nothing wrong with a little toke now and then if you need it, but leave me something to butter my fucking toast with, assholes.

Socks.  Yeah, that’s right, socks.  I just hate ’em.  They suck.

The Atlantic Ocean because of its current location, which is directly between myself and people I would like to be able to visit without an airplane.  The ocean is an asshole.

[Nice Drea:  “mmfffttt…beach…surfin’….mmfftt….”

Evil Drea:  *throws ashtray*]

Having cold feet.  Not the anti-wedding kind – that kind, I highly endorse.  No, I mean actual cold feet.  And if you even say the word ‘socks’, I will kick your ass into tomorrow.

Wings.  The band.  I mean, do we really need any more proof that John Lennon and George Harrison were the only things holding The Beatles together?  RIP, guys – you are missed.  Paul McCartney’s a sap.  (Notice the omission of criticism for ol’ Mr. Starkey.  Who can make up their minds if he sucks or not, really?  He’s too strange.  Which puts him at least a couple of rungs above our Paulie boy, in my book.)

[Nice Drea:  *hums a few bars of “Silly Love Songs” with dreamy look on face*

Evil Drea:  *chucks a mug*]

Fishermen’s Friend throat lozenges.  If you happen to be fortunate enough to live in a land without such things, imagine Buckley’s cough syrup mixed with cyanide and vomit, solidified and disguised as candy.  Now you know what I’m talking about.  I’d rather eat razor blades.  I mean, really, whose fucking sick joke was that?  I hope they die choking on one of those things.

[Nice Drea:  *nods head enthusiastically*

Evil Drea:  We-ell…I guess I can set you free now that you’re coming to your senses.]

Later, peeps.  ‘Til next time.  *rubs hands together with wicked glee*

Voice Mail-ophobia

I have a little problem.  I’m afraid of my voice mail.

You see, I have one of those systems that won’t let you retrieve your new messages until you deal with the old ones.  Every time I decide, “Okay, today I’m really going to do it – I’m going to go through all these messages and I’m going to have a pen and paper handy, and I’m going to write everyone’s phone numbers in my date book, and I’m going to call everyone back” ~

I log in and there’s that voice, saying, “The following messages will be deleted from your mailbox:…”

I mean, who needs threats from their answering machine?  Who?  Seriously.  I hate that voice.  I hate her.  With the heat of a thousand suns.  I want to find her and throw a pie at her face.  Don’t judge – she hates me, too, or she wouldn’t keep harassing me like this.

And then the spiralling anxiety kicks in, because I know that messages only get deleted from my mailbox after 15 days.  And so I realize that not only will I have to deal with all the messages from the past 15 days, but also all of the ones from the 15 days before that, which I fast-forwarded through and re-saved 15 days ago because I couldn’t muster it up to deal with them then, either.  So I speed through every single one, skipping them and just re-saving them all so that I can go through them at my leisure at a more convenient time.  And so the cycle continues…

It’s not that I don’t care.  I do.  I really do.  I actually get very sad when there aren’t any messages.  I love it when people call (well, except telemarketers…and stalkers…and my mom when she wants to know why I told my dad something before I told her…)

I mean, I do have call display (on the cordless phone which I tend to lose most frequently, naturally), but it is no help whatsoever, because almost everyone I know lives outside of my local calling area and we’re all using special long-distance services or pre-paid calling cards.  Which look a lot like telemarketing phone numbers on call display.  To which I perform a brief-but-scathing fuck-you ritual when I see them.

The worst part of it all is that I may actually know I owe someone a phone call…but when I try to call, I can’t remember their number, or it’s been disconnected.  And then I get vague stirrings in my memory of a voice mail they left for me and I realize that in order to get their number, I am going to have to venture into the wildlands of my voice mailbox.  It’s like that moment in the movies where you know the chick is going to go into the basement and you just know she shouldn’t.  I hear ominous sharky music in my head.  I acquire tunnel vision with a fiendishly glowing aura at the end, centred on my telephone.

I’m not trying to boast that I’m so popular I can’t keep up with my voice mail.  Oh, no – in fact, I believe it is quite the opposite.  The last few times I actually braced myself and listened through them, it was interesting to note how many of the messages began with “Hey, asshole…”  – which always leads to one of those “BAHAHAHAAAhaha – hey!” moments.  But I’m trying to learn to think of it as a term of endearment (which, actually, in my family, it kind of is). 

The only time I voluntarily listen to my voice mail, really, is when I’m feeling blue.  I act all cynical and sarcastic most of the time, but (don’t tell anyone) I’m such a sentimental loser.  I really am.  If you sing me a song or tell me that you love me in a voice mail message, odds are good it will be saved forever.  My best friend phones me every year on my birthday at the crack of dawn and sings ‘Happy Birthday’ in a silly voice (Betty Boop, Marilyn Monroe, etc.).  I have at least three years’ worth of these calls still on record.  When I feel funky, I go listen to these messages and I feel better.  It’s a cheap, quick fix and it is not below me to use it.

Anyway, how about we just say that this post is an open letter to all those I’ve been neglecting and we start fresh?  Or keep calling.  I promise to stop being an asshole.

It’s not easy being afraid of your voice mail.

Published in: on November 16, 2008 at 2:38 am  Comments (1)  
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On the Importance of Always Remaining Just a Bit Out of Touch With Reality

A girl is alone in a small emergency dispatch office.  It is the middle of the night.  She signs off on the radio with a firefighter returning home after a call and stands to stretch her legs.

As she waits for water to boil for her second cup of coffee of the night, she throws open the window and leans out over the windowbox to breathe in the clean night air.  The world is still.  She rests her chin on her hands and sighs, gazing at the sky and thinking big thoughts about life, love, and polar bears.  She likes the old window with its flowerbox, because it makes her feel vaguely French.  In a few hours, she will lean out again to watch the sun rise, as she does every morning.  Soon she will have a hot, sweet cup of hazelnut cream coffee.  Life is good and she is at peace.

A voice penetrates the darkness.

“No!  Fuck YOU, asshole!!!”

Another Friday night in Bridgewater.


Published in: on November 8, 2008 at 3:36 am  Comments (5)  
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