Tag Archives: Blizzard of 2011

Back that thing up, Kitty.

I think I messed around and let my cat go into heat.

Penny, my baby kitty who’s too cute for words and too small for surgery, started yowling last night. Of course she’s got an appointment next week for spaying. She’s been acting strange for a few days, and last night, she meowed loudly at nothing and was flopping around on the floor. I keep waiting to see her back into things, like all the websites say cats in heat do, but I haven’t yet. Just a bit of writhing and howling.

So, I’ve got what amounts to a horny teenager in a house full of monks, as both Percy and Leon are fixed. But for Penny, I put it off because she was so itty bitty, and I know vets don’t like them to be under 5 pounds.

With Percy, my HossMan of a Cat, he was three months old and sporting what appeared to be two tennis balls under his tail. But no vet would take him because he was so young. Finally, one vet took him in, lest the the House of Kitty Porn called Percy for a starring role. Percy, though, is part wildebeest. He’s a giant mountain of a cat, even when he’s on meth. (See this blog for more on that.)

Anyhoo, Penny is probably In Season and I won’t be able to get her spayed next week. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. I can’t imagine her being sexually active. I think it would destroy what little hope in innocence I have.

*** Unrelated Note A: My car got stuck in my driveway this morning, but I worked/shoveled my way out of it. Since it was -12 yesterday morning here in Tulsa, I thought it might be best if I park indoors like normal. I was too scared to traverse my driveway Wednesday night, but had a flash of bravery last night. I was only stuck for 20 minutes this morning… things are looking up. Blizzard of 2011, eat it.

*** Unrelated Note 2: I listened to 90s music this morning, and I realized that since I started the Garish Chicken, I haven’t used it for what it was intended: A place to purge my brain of its incessant need to latch onto every song ever. But the GD blizzard kinda took the wind out of my sails and straight up my pantlegs. Look for more music talk next week! Probably with a shiny “New! Improved! Now with 33.3% More music!” label on it.

Happy Friday, y’all! Have a drink for my sex-starved cat. But don’t get her drunk. Lord knows what she would try on you.

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It’s the end of the Blizz as we know it

… and I feel FINE. Beyond fine, really. Drove home tonight after spending the night in the Hyatt Regency in downtown Tulsa due to the Winter Storm of Impending DOOOOOOM :O

The morning came too quickly after too many Stella Artois, but who’s counting? I was drinking on a weeknight! I am naughty!

I walked to work this morning in the blizzard. It was probably the coldest morning I’ve felt ever, but I didn’t really feel it because I was jacked up on coffee and eggs. We had breakfast at the hotel’s restaurant and I must’ve had me about 15 cups of coffee. I make my own coffee every morning, and it’s strong enough to skin a mule, so I don’t have to drink much. And there isn’t a guy bringing me more (I MUST work on that). I was in caffeine buzz heaven and I got a lot of shit done early.

It was fun getting out of my well-worn comfort zone. My former roommate, the Ex-Gay Husband, came by in the middle of the night to let Leon out to Do His Thang. That meant I didn’t come home to shitpiles! Hurrah! Despite my near-psychosis about leaving Leon alone, it all worked out. The cats did construct and detonate an atom bomb, but that’s not important right now.

I’m really stupid tired. But it’s a beautiful night here in T-Town. The sun shined for a few hours, though it’s colder than Billy Blue Blazes, as my mom used to say, but it’s nice to be home. I’m going to settle in with some somewhat homemade food, “Breaking Bad: Season 2” and my dog. Probably a few cats, too, though I don’t want them to watch “Breaking Bad.” I’m pretty sure Percy has his own meth lab in a shady corner of my garage. I started believing more today when I got home and there were several sets of tiny kitten tracks in the snow leading to my garage. My cats don’t go out — you tell me what’s going on.

I think life will start getting back to normal, so be prepared to read more posts borne out of boredom. They’ll probably be more structured, and contain more somewhat-real stories about my family, such as my brother-in-law Justin who adores Little People.

Peace out for tonight, homeslices, and stay warm, unless you’re in Florida (I’m talking to YOU, Natalie.) You guys can get sunburned for all I care. Motherbitches.

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Lost: The Parking Garage Edition

I had my own little “HOLY SHIT THEY MOVED THE ISLAND!” moment yesterday after leaving work.

Now, I’ll tell you from the beginning that my mental state is indeed challenged at this moment. I used to think I was impervious to mental strain and anguish, but the older I get, the more ridiculous I am. Throw 27 feet of snow on top of that, and you’ve got me basically baring my teeth to strangers, hissing and drooling alone in the corner.

(Note: I promise, the Garish Chicken won’t always be about the Blizzard of 2011 and its consequences… please don’t lose faith in me yet. I’ve also been hormonally challegend lately.)

Yesterday evening, as the sun-ish was setting over a brown-snow covered Tulsa, I finally packed up my crap and walked to the garage, a bit downtrodden at the news that I’d be staying in a hotel the next evening because of an impending snow and that fact that a newspaper must go out. It sounds silly, maybe, but I was worried about my dog. He’s a homebody. He hates cars. He hates my neighbors. He’s kind of high-maintenance in stressful situations.

So I’m trying to remember where my car is parked at this garage in downtown T-Town that I had to park in because the lot I actually pay for was still covered in the aforementioned Heap Big Snow. Except for a narrow swath that some half-assed plow cut through it — the spots themselves were still covered in mounds of snow. Tres ridicule.

So I tried to find a spot along the street yesterday. Nothing. I finally relented and parked in this mammoth garage, taking a ticket from the Spit-Out-A-Ticket-O-Matic and then amazingly finding a covered spot. I was happy, though still jangly from driving in ice in circles trying to find a spot, and I didn’t pay close enough attention to where I parked.

That all came to a delightful fruition late Monday evening, while I traipsed up and down the seemingly senseless floors of the parking garage. It’s like a horror movie in there — flourescent lights that kind of work, going out every now and again, a drip around every corner, strange men walking around. And the floors aren’t named correctly. The bottom floor is “GC,” which I now know is “Gold Card,” for the Upper-Crust Parker. The next floor is “T,” wich still makes no sense. The next is “M,” for Main Mall, which is where you’re actually exiting on Main Street. The next is A, then B, C & D. Those kind of make sense. But the others? Gobbledygook.

Every time I rounded a corner, I expected a axe-murderer, but looked for my car, the one with the dented fender and no side-view mirrors (another story for another time.) I also had to dodge SUVs that drove like bats straight out of Hades while coming around the dimly lit levels. They might as well have flipped me off when they passed me, flaunting their giant vehicles and the fact that they found their cars. Douchebags.

Turns out, my car was parked on the T (for Terror) level. I was near tears by the time I found my Corolla, convinced it had been Raptured On Up to Heaven, or worse, towed. I tried to call the parking garage phone number to see if they’d towed it. No answer. I was ready to lay myself down in a puddle and start flailing and wailing.

I seriously lost what I thought was pretty intact sanity. I got in the car and talked myself down, realizing that my once-fearless self was seriously on vacation and overdue to come back home.  I’m ready to return to being level-headed, and being able to figure out the geometry of a parking garage.

Today, I’m parking near a major structure, and maybe even taking a picture of where it’s parked. I can’t handle another one of these episodes.

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Yes, I missed “That Game”

My Neighbor's Prius

If you look closely, you'll see a Prius buried in the snow. You Yankees may be used to this, but us Okies thinks it's the End Times! And can certainly make you not care about the Super Bowl.

I’m a big-time sports girl, always have been. But it was made worse when I spent five years as a sports copy editor for the Tulsa newspaper. Don’t know if y’all know this, but football’s kind of a big deal ’round these parts.

Anyway, I missed the Super Bowl. My ex-gay husband (he’s still gay, but now married to another gay guy and no longer living with me, as that would be weird… and we were never really married, but I digress) and I were on the phone today and he asked me what I thought about the game. And I had nothing to offer.

I’m not going off on a stereotypical rant here, but when did he start watching football all religiously and I start not giving a shit? Again, I blame BlizzBeast 2011, the Thing That Should Not Be, which has made life miserable since February began.

As if February’s spelling wasn’t all stupid and French already, now it’s ruined thanks to snow. The Holofrost (I can’t take credit for that; I read it on Facebook) is still kicking my ass, and will continue doing it until Round 2 clears on Wednesday night, which will mean I have to stay at a HOTEL, away from my PRECIOUS DOG and CATS, so I can WORK, which I why I called the Ex-GH anyway, because he has to care for these poor defenseless animals in my absentia. But again, I’ve gotten tangential.

So I watched about a quarter of the Super Bowl, then had to forage for something to eat among my depleted cabinets… and I ended up making fried chicken. Yes, I know, it was hard times, huh… but I got all distracted in flour mixtures and iron skillets, and lost track of the game. Then the Packers and their foxy quarterback made it all boring by being so foxy and good, so I quit watching and turned the TV to “Big Love.”

I chose Bill Paxton over Aaaaaron Rodgers (he has too many extra letters, might as well add more) and Steelers coach Mike Tomlin, the foxiest brown man alive. OK, Benicio is hotter, but Mike is more brown. I love the spectrum of skin colors. It’s what makes me me! But Bill Paxton is not hot, and “Big Love” was recorded! What’s become of me?

But the Super Bowl is just so… overdone. And don’t get me started on that train wreck who sang the National Anthem. I think there should be a new rule. If your name is not Whitney Houston or Whitney Houston Jr., you don’t need to apply.

And if you’re WH Jr., you”ll still have to audition.

I kinda feel sorry for Fergie. I could hear her trying to sing over the obvious sound problems while my chicken was turning Golden Brown and Delicious. And I saw a few commercials. The Doritos one where the guy brings back his friend’s gramps was great.

So yeah, I saw all the really girly parts of the Super Bowl, which is kind of bizarre. Come to think of it, I only watched a few bowl games this year, and I have only watched about three quarters of hoops so far.

Could I be losing my sports edge?

I’m starting steroids. Tomorrow. If I can get out of my house.   Goddamned Snow/Mongorians.

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Chips Ahoy!: Superior to everything.

Dare I say that no one reviews already-deemed awesome foods enough?

I dare, alright, and I’m just gonna throw this one out there: You hipsters with your fancy “artisan” cookies, I think Chips Ahoy! is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I realize that Gwen Stefani song is old, but it applies, so backthefuckoff.

Yes, I’m snowed in still, and on a whim, in my dizzying trip to the grocery store mid-cabin fever, when I didn’t have a list but was shopping using only me Id, I bought a sleeve of Chips Ahoy! (exclamation point INTENDED!) and ate them over three days.

Normally, I probably wouldn’t blog extoll-house-ing the virtues of cookies, but dammit if they didn’t get me through the rough parts of this storm. Yesterday, during Clean Fest 2011 (see this blog) I survived on Chips Ahoy! and leftover pizza.

I think I might’ve even lost some weight over this snow-in, so therefore, Chips Ahoy! are good for diets.

Don’t tell my Weight Watchers group leader I wrote this. She’d shit. Literally. And I don’t want to see that again.

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