Category Archives: Happenings

Gimme Sixty Kittens.

Catherine: Not like I think you need any more proof that I am going to be/perhaps already am a crazy cat lady, but here is some fuel for the fire.

This morning, whilst driving to work, an adorable kittencat crossed the road and all was good! But then I noticed that the kittencat had been viciously attacked and was missing most of his/her kittencat tail and the tail bone (literally) was sticking out exposed.

I teared up. Immediately.

My first instinct was to try to save said kittencat, and bring the kittencat to a vet, but Will pointed out that it was a feral cat, and that is just what life is for these cats?


I am adding a picture of Jones and Maggie, resident cats, in an attempt to not go jump off a bridge in light of the fact that I cannot help or save every kittencat in the world.

KITTENCATS! Calming down..Calm, returning.

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I’m allergic to things (specifically, most things, foods, and animals).

Jana: This is a list of my allergies:
Spicy foods
Mold (so, so many kinds)
Minor Danders (hamsters, rabbits, ferrets, etc)
Grass (when freshly cut)

So many! It shouldn’t come as a surprise, then, that I have spent approximately, at least, 85% of my life unable to breathe through my nose. When I was a child, I didn’t even KNOW that most people don’t breathe through their mouths just all of the time. I didn’t think it was weird to wake up with super dry lips and super gross morning mouth, or to carry piles of tissues wherever I went (mostly in the pockets of my zip-up hoodies), and, if I’m being honest, to leave a trail of said tissues in my wake. I wasn’t really bothered by wiping my nose on the sleeve of my Gap t-shirt, either, which was lovely. I was THE Allergy Kid. The resident one. In all groups of which I was a part (school, family, no other groups).

Here I am waking up as I always woke up: With my mouth open, ready for another day of clogged sinuses.

Case in point: At my alternative elementary school, we all had to make a personalized needle case by sewing a design that represented us on to the front. I sewed a tissue box, with little rays of sunshine coming out of it, because nothing else seemed to represent me quite so well.

My parents tried a LOT of different remedies for my allergies, including but not limited to: nasal sprays, daily and nightly consumption of Sudafed and/or Claritin, homeopathic doctors who had me react to crystals, elimination diets, and acupuncture. They also pulled out the wall-to-wall carpeting in my room, put in an air-cleaner, and bought really expensive dust-shielding pillowcases that they read about in magazines called “Allergen”, or something.

Sadly, I did not have the motivation to keep my room clean, so these efforts were largely in vain. I often found myself lying in bed, looking around at dust-covered surfaces, breathing heavily through my mouth and feeling trapped in a hell of my own making. It was at these moments that I would occasionally jump up, determined, and root through piles of shit until I found my very trendy Medicinal Masks, which I purchased in the First Aid aisle at Walgreens and wore for cleaning. I’d pop on one of those babies, secure the elastic around my frizzy hair, and clean until I grew tired, or until I could no longer stand the way my breath collected within the mask and then hit me in the face.

I wish I could say that I’ve since found another dusting solution, but against my better judgment I’m going to post this picture, taken circa 2008 during an epic cleaning of my last college apartment (which, as many of you can attest, was a DISGUSTING place. We had too many cups so we never washed them, and were mostly too drunk to clean, etc):

I know that I’m also holding salsa and wearing a wrist brace in this picture – cleaning the fridge with a broken wrist, a tale for another day.

So yes, my allergies extended into adulthood (excuse me – continue to extend as I hit the END of my twenties and have a pile of those masks in my room and a stack of *dusty* medicine boxes next to my bed). In fact, a few days before leaving for my sophomore year of college, I had an elaborate allergy testing session that entailed getting 60 shots in a row, on my arm, in patterns. Basically, they shot me up with all kinds of mold and animal fur to see how I reacted. Obviously, they learned that I was allergic to almost all of them (the result of this was that they gave me a concoction to shoot into my arm. For a while I gave myself shots, which meant owning tools mostly owned by serious heroin users, but naturally they¬†were ineffective). While I sat in the waiting room allowing the reactions to kick in, I read “The Secret Life of Bees”, which I felt pretty meh about, and then returned to school that weekend with a VERY cool-looking pen-drawn allergy shot grid on my arm: ready to party.

Catherine: I will never get sick of reminding Jana of her allergies. Whenever I make anything (and I cook a lot), I make sure she knows that alfredo sauce has dairy, that chocolate cake has chocolate, and that peanut butter has nuts. The look of “Oh you, again, you got me!” gets me every. single. time. It has made eating out with the Jana difficult at times, but ultimately, it is so worth it because you get to enjoy her order with “no cheese please!” Inevitably, it will come with cheese, and Jana will PROBABLY just eat around it as sending it back is just too much.

Can I also mention that you are allergic to lipstick and anything but black chapstick? I remember in college, the costumers always being like, SERIOUSLY? And you slinking into yourself… “yeah…” Pale-lipped, Jan.

And aren’t you forgetting soy, too?

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A Brief Example of Why Maybe I Failed My Driver’s Test Twice, and Only Passed The Third Time Because the Cop Used to Work For My Dad

Catherine: I parked on a hill that was divided by a sort of weird road-blocky-thing, so right in front of my car was a cement block and a big fat yellow sign. I took the parking brake off, spun the wheels and pounded into reverse. Upon not moving, I pushed the gas harder.
Then I realized I was in drive, driving 30 miles an hour into the sign. Items scratched: The front of the car. My pride.
I am basically really dumb, that’s what I learned.
That’s all.
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Advice To Everyone


Hey, guy. Advice, unsolicited, from me to you. Think about it like an early Christmas gift.

If you have a broken nail, or a hang nail, or anything like that, don’t try to fix it after having drank an entire bottle of wine. With scissors. At one in the morning.

It won’t turn out how you hoped!

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Things That Just Happened, Literally Just Now


I got up and noticed my reflection in the mirror and saw the most massive zit probably ever, which had appeared, seemingly, in about the time it took me to eat my breakfast (yogurt, which I hate, is allegedly good for me? Gross.)


It wasn’t a zit, but a good chunk of brownie that was caked onto my face. Because I had put brownies into my yogurt, because I hate it so much. And now I just hate myself.

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For Parties to which I should not be invited: Telephone Pictionary!

Jana: I recently played a really fun game that I’d like to share, advertise, and encourage (all meaning the same thing? Quite possibly). The game is “Telephone Pictionary,” and it works just like that game “Telephone” that you definitely played at a childhood birthday party when, if you were me, you were really just plotting a way to get your mom to call and ask you yes-or-no questions (ie, “Are you having fun?”, “Do you want to leave?”) so that you could tentatively say into the phone, “No?, Yes?”, and then explain to the party-throwers that your mom really needed you to go home now sorry!, thus escaping another round of “Telephone.”

Now that you’re an adult, though, you should know about “Telephone Pictionary” – Yes, you should. Despite the fact that this, like all games played in groups, is one you should really just start playing instead of having someone explain the rules while no one listens, Here are the Rules!:

– Cut up a bunch of pieces of paper.

– Give everyone the same number of pieces as there are people.

– Have everyone write a phrase on their first piece of paper. This phrase should be anything weird and interesting. One I used last time was, “Long-lost cat (ran away 2 years ago) shows up on day of big family event; reactions are mixed.” You get the idea.

– Once everyone has written the phrase, pass your pile of papers, with the phrase piece on top, to the person on your left.

– That person receives the phrase, and, on the next piece of paper, draws the phrase as best they can.

– The pile is then passed again, with the drawing on top this time.

– The person receiving the drawing then re-interprets the drawing into a new phrase, writing whatever they see.

– The paper is passed again….

You get it, right? It’s like telephone with pictures. By the end, the phrase has become “Jewish family in ceremonial garb eats large animal; some people are crying”, or something like that. It’s hilarious! And it helps if you are drinking.

It also helps, I will say, if you have some artistic ability of some kind. Unfortunately, despite spending my youth at an alternative elementary school that emphasized artistic expression, I am UNABLE TO DRAW. Worried by the title, I vocalized this when the game started, and it was laughed off. “No worries! It doesn’t have to be good!”, my friends encouraged. But by mid-game, I was given a handicap (“Oh my god ok, just LABEL something”), and by the end I think that the group, while having a good time, was genuinely concerned about me.

Here are a few of the pictures I drew, for your viewing pleasure:

The prompt for this one was something like, “The monopoly man is now homeless.”

You can see my thought process here: At the top, he’s on a monopoly board, and then afterward he’s in some kind of… homeless mire? Also, in the beginning he is wearing an upside-down top hat. My only explanation for this is that I quite literally forgot what a top hat looked like, panicked, and drew that one instead.

Marilyn Monroe fights a tiger.

Ok. So this one was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe fighting a tiger. Obviously, I forgot what tigers look like. Also obviously, I don’t have any idea what Marilyn Monroe looks like. The zig-zag in the middle was supposed to represent the fight, I think, because by the time I’d drawn Marilyn and the tiger, I realized that they were far away from each other and seemed fairly complacent. The thing behind Marilyn was supposed to be a movie screen – the concept, at least, was high minded: She in her world, he (the tiger) in his. Unfortunately the person interpreting this thought that the movie screen was a postcard, so.

Finally there’s this:

A black herd eats pancakes.

Here, we have the most questionable picture – the one that is yes, maybe, a little racist. This came at the point at which I had been granted that label handicap. The problem here stemmed from the fact that the prompt read “A black nerd (possibly Urkel?) eats pancakes”. Here’s where that tricky little issue of how similar Ns and H’s sometimes look came into play. I thought it said a black HERD. So I drew these four curly-haired people, as apparently all I know about black people is that they have afros? What? Or maybe, just maybe, I was avoiding black face – yes, let’s go with that. And I labeled – of all things – their bottle of syrup.

So, there you have it. I cannot draw, and in retrospect, should not be allowed to play this game again. But have fun guys! Call me after when you’re ready to do something that’s more up my alley, like just drink in silence without using other special skills.

Catherine: I can’t read this post without getting extremely upset that you are so far away. I need to play this with you, basically right now, because ohmygod, I would get free reign on just making fun of you and how terrible you are at drawing. And nothing is better than making fun of you, and of us, and how bad our lives are/can be.

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That Time When I Ruined The Day (Maybe Life) Of A Target Employee Because My Body Exploded

Catherine: It was an afternoon like many other, probably overcast and nothing particularly good happening. My mother and I had eaten at the Old Country Buffet, which was sort of our standby throughout high school. Something about getting in and eating ALL YOU COULD, well, it appealed to me. To us both, really. Anyways. We finish eating (which is to say we had the equivalent of four meals at once) and journeyed down the way to Target. Whilst perusing the wares, suddenly I was kind of like, “Hm. You know what, I think I need to go to the bathroom.” Ten seconds later, that changed to “YOU KNOW WHAT, I THINK I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM.” So, there I was. Bathroom was at the farthest possible point from my current Targetspot, and Target is huge, so thus began my emergency run/walk. I wish I could say I was not sweating and breathing heavily, but I absolutely was. By the time I was in sight of the bathroom, it was Defcon 5. As I rushed through the door, I noticed the ‘Out of Service’ sign, followed by a surprised cleaning lady whose face I saw but for a moment as I bust into a stall. Her “Bathroom is being serviced, you must wait!” rang in my ears as the door shut and I yellscreamed back, “IT’S AN EMERGENCY!!!!”

If you or someone you know has had to walk home after a too-drunken night where you met your soulmate only to awake and find that he/she is (to put it mildly) NOT EVEN CLOSE, know that when I had to leave the stall, AND SHE WAS STILL THERE, HAVING HEARD EVERYTHING, I felt something, deep, deep inside – it was The Ultimate Walk of Shame.

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And Now?

November 13, 2011

Jana: Last week I had to see my doctor. I made the appointment to discuss birth control?, which is how I explained my reasons to the receptionist when I called to schedule the visit. Anyway, after work I drove to davis square, and arrived just about 15 minutes early. (I had planned to arrive one hour early and get SO MUCH DONE in the nearby Starbucks – that’s why I brought my computer, see – but then I had paid no attention while driving and taken the absolute slowest and most ridiculous route possible, thus arriving with just 15 minutes to spare). Luckily, that was enough time to go to Starbucks, buy one tea, and cry quietly while I drank it before heading to the doctor’s office.

When I got there I was told to wait. So I waited and waited and waited. I finished my tea. After 45 minutes, I decided to use the bathroom. With the receptionist’s permission, I went through the doctor’s door, out of the waiting room, to use the bathroom that I knew existed down the hall. On my way back from the bathroom, I passed a little office across from the examining room, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a tiny figure. And this is where my mind went: THE DOCTOR IS A CHILD, WHAT? WHAT?

It turns out that it was just an actual child, who I guess was having heart problems which caused the whole DELAY (I told the doctor that of course I understood about that and wasn’t bothered by it, but then when she left I cried a little thinking about all of the time I’d wasted that day, so you decide if my heart is in the right place when it comes to the heart health of children). The point is, my doctor is not a child, but for a brief minute I really thought she was.

Catherine: I find this entire story amazing. I wish that, someway, somehow, your doctor really had been a small, small child. And I would like to envision the part where the childdoctor goes, “What brings you here?” and you go, “Um. I need… uh, birth control?” And then the childdoctor looks at you and goes, ” What, you got something against kids? You think I shouldn’t be alive?” And you go, “Um. No. What?” Then the childdoctor goes, “I was just joshing you, let’s get you some pills. Hope they don’t make your boobs get any larger. But, that probably will end up happening.” You, “::tears::”.