conversations, part 1

20 Feb

Swede and I have been spending some time in DC, partaking in the joys of the Walnut House’s front porch, swigging cocktails, thinking deep thoughts, creating a ruckus, and in general annoying the shit out of his cats.

What the-- Are you f-ing with me? Dammit, why didn’t anyone TELL me you were coming back? Shit.

I’m not joking you guys. We showed up at midnight, right after the Super Bowl, tired and vaguely sore from sitting in a car for 12 hours and eyes strained from reading road signs along the Penna Turnpike because unless you suddenly decide to take up arms and go on a sno-ball binge at every rest stop you come across, there is not a damn thing that makes driving through Pennsylvania interesting. And we walked in to two cats who were, in a word, Pissed.

And since then, they’ve continued to be Pissed. This is not abnormal, of course. Since Swede and I started dating they’ve been irritated. The one doesn’t get why I don’t love him, and the other one is angry that I’ve stolen her man. A) I’m allergic and 2) OPPOSABLE THUMBS.

But now, they’re mostly pissed at Swede for leaving them for two months, though it’s just silliness, if you ask me, because let’s face it—they were left in the care of Swede’s very capable and fabulous roommate, who loves these furballs tremendously and does not ever throw them in Kitty Jail for being annoying like Swede does.

As of late, I’ve tried my best to make peace with the cats. The one, whom I like to call Lady Gaga because she’s freaky and kind of a diva, and I have reinstated our long-standing agreement that we will not bother each other and stay out of each others’ way, and she can continue to be irritated with me and I will continue to sneeze whenever she’s around.

But the other one. Well. We’ve been having a lot of conversations lately that are not unlike negotiating with a mute toddler.

Me: Seriously, dude, stop meowing. You have food in your bowl. Oh. I see you barfed in your bowl. Awesome. Well done you.

Him: * blink *  * blink  *


Me: Stop eating the flowers.

Him: Meow?

Me: Yes, now.

Him: Mrrrw.


Me: No, you can’t go outside. The last time you jumped out the back window all you did was walk around to the front of the house and show up on the front porch looking confused.

Him: Mrow.

Me: Well it’s not my fault you’re not adventurous.

Him: * blink *  * blink *


Me: I know you like the roommate better than me. YOU MAKE ME ALLERGIC. It’s all I can do to stay in the room with you sometimes. Not because of the allergies, though. Just because you’re you. Why can’t you be like the other one, and skitter away when I walk in the room? WHY DON’T YOU FEAR ME?

Him: * blink *  * blink *


Me: Listen, dude, I know you wish Swede would dump me and date a chick who likes cats and who is not made allergic by them. But the heart wants what it wants. And his heart wants me. And I want you declawed.

Him: Mrow?

Me: That’s what you get for scratching up my shit while I’m gone. And you can warn the other one, too, when you have your next catnap, i.e. when I know you two are acting like you’re napping but are really plotting how to kill us in our sleep. I’ve got my eye on you, you know. OPPOSABLE THUMBS, BITCHES.

Him: * blink *

I’ve got my eye on YOU, woman. Be afraid, be very afr-- Wait, is that new food?


4 Responses to “conversations, part 1”

  1. The Swede February 20, 2012 at 7:06 PM #

    But, honestly, they think you are grand.

  2. Andrea Perullo February 20, 2012 at 8:33 PM #

    And this is why I’m a dog girl! 🙂

    • mollystrz February 21, 2012 at 9:42 AM #

      You and me both, sister! 😉


  1. conversations, part IV | - June 19, 2013

    […] No, don’t worry—the balcony is nothing like jumping out the back window.  First of all, there’s a barrier. Second, if you did jump off, you’d be screwed, because […]

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