• Thoughts on Love and Cats on Toast

    Yesterday, the cat jumped on my toast. I think this may be why they tell you not to eat in the bedroom and not to put food on the bed. I put it down for a hot minute and SHAZAAMMM! He decided to jump on the bed and on the toast. He was covered in honey and my toast was covered in cat hair. It was a bad way to start the day but he was at least able to lick himself off. Cats are nonchalant jerks sometimes. I recently read that dogs will yawn sympathetically. I keep fake-yawning in front of Mr. Nichi but he doesn’t yawn back. Either he’s dumb, or unsympathetic….or else, he’s way smart and knows I’m a faker. I have no way of knowing.

    My brother’s best-good friend recently got married. I love me a good wedding, so when I got the invitation, I got really excited. When I heard about the requisite pre-wedding drama with the dresses and the lazy bridesmaids and the fact that someone called DJ Happy was spinning, I knew I had to go. A week before the wedding, I drove my brother all the way out to the outlying ghetto of San Pablo for the bachelor party. Apparently, it was amazing. Strippers know how to get a party going. It’s in their nature. This one came all the way from Santa Cruz to shake it. Getting her out there = $200. Having her remove her tiny thong = $100. The “Bachelor Special” = pretty effing priceless. For a cool $190, the bachelor received a trifecta of (sorta) sexy services. First was the baby oil bath. Then, she grabbed one of those tall holy candles my grandma would burn in the sink on weekends—the kind with a Virgin de Guadalupe or a special saint on it. She unsexily poured like a pint of hot wax on the bachelor’s chest. I guess he screamed like a girl. The finale was strange. She whipped out the shaving cream and shaved the top of his ass. She squirted extra in the crack, pulled his pants up, and spanked him hard so the cream flew across the room. She gets an A+ for creativity.

    The wedding was awesome. The mass was slightly tedious and the priest did everything out of order. He probably should have shown up to the rehearsal. They kissed before they were actually “man and wife” and then were kept up there for quite a while to sign all the paperwork right on the altar. I think I was in the restroom when they became man and wife. I needed to take a break. I used to be able to sit through an entire Sunday Mass but I think my heathendom has—among other things—rendered me weak, unfocused, and easily bored. I reverted back to my time-tested and highly reliable grammar school coping skills. I began studying the backs of people’s heads. I flipped through the missal. I began to day dream and tried to calculate the number of hours I had spent in this very dreary place and then attempted to convert that to days and then years. Much of my young life was spent in this very church and the only thing I really enjoyed was confession.

    My pop was nice and got me a room within easy stumbling distance from the reception. Dinner was a scream, to be sure. I got seated with old family friends. The man fanned himself with a ladies fan the entire time. He doesn’t say too much. His wife said he had to conserve his energy “for later.” Yikes. This cute chubby girl at the table offered me some feta from a napkin she had taken from the wine and cheese reception. She talked to me for a little while about how much she loves feta. She was a peach. DJ Happy was spinning all the Latin jams. I asked him to play “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa but that didn’t happen. I think I went back to ask for “Laffy Taffy” but that didn’t happen either. I danced just the same and impressed my brother and his girlfriend with my versatile dancing skills. For example, I wasn’t aware I knew how to dance to banda music. Or bachatas. But apparently, I have missed my calling. Sadly, this is a talent I can only access when drinking.

    Ohhh well. In an attempt to master various talents/skills—think my failed tap career—I have decided to take a book binding class. That tap snafu really got to me. It made me feel like a loser and a quitter and someone with no tap capabilities. The last thing is true. Book binding might be more my speed. The first class was a bit of a doozy—the teacher told us we could go early but some especially bored individuals thought it’d be better to stand around and ask the teacher a lot of inappropriate questions. “Are you married?”, “do you have kids?”, and “want to adopt some?” were my faves. Closely followed by “what kind of car do you drive?” Man…6-hours every Saturday is going to be well-worth it.