Thursday, September 15, 2016

~ I Want ALL Of The Gold Stars


I want to be a 'good person'.  I spend a inordinate amount of time attempting to fit that definition.  Usually, I think it's not that hard.  Being a dick is just not my go-to-move.  Which isn't to say I can't be a dick.  Everybody has their breaking point where all bets are off.  I just try to use all of the other gettin' shit done tools in my arsenal first.  (Caveat:  Sometimes [although particularly in business, I probably feel this way 'cause I don't let a lotta assholes in the BBGWorld-da-verse.] an asshole only understands assholiness.  That's the only language they understand.  They can't respect anything other than the asshole approach, so you've gotta go in hard with these people.  [Which is kinda fun and exhausting all at the same time.], but I digress.
Mom is an RN.  Before that she was a Police Officer.
Dad was a Police Officer.  Before that (& ALWAYS)
a Marine.  So you're damn straight this is one
of my favorite quotes.

So the frequency in which I'm having to remind me that I'm not the kind of person who kills cats is, I wanna say disturbing, but also stressful, so?  Disturbfull?  Stresstrubing?  Having to come up with new words to convey the enormity of fuck-up'idness, is also, as it turns out, stresstrubing.

I have, let's call 'em general plans if I have to kill an actual person.  Which I am always prepared to have be a possibility. 

Totally TMI, and (some serious digression is about to go on alert:) probably a tid-bit that once I share will likely leave your head noddin' in the affirmative while thinking silently, 'yeah.  That explains a lot.'  When I was a wee ass lass, maybe? 8-ish, a completely random guess from a girl who can't accurately recall what the fuck I did last Tuesday.  My Dad was studying for the Sergeants exam.  Manuals and study guides sat on side tables and I was kinda kid who liked to read the set of encyclopedias, or Finger Paper Google for you youngin's. Next thing I know I am learning about entrance wounds vs. exit wounds.  I won't bore you with the details, but full color, corpses on the slab, oh, that's what brain matter looks like?, amazement and wonder sucked me in.  So much so that I never heard my Mom enter the room.  I did hear when she yelled at my Dad for leaving such material out and about.  (Sorry, Dad.)  I could absolutely not see the problem.  I'd learned some shit.  For, ya know, all of those times an elementary age kid needs to lead a murder investigation.  I'd seen parts of the body I'd never seen before other than in cartoon form.  Thought that was cool too.  I don't remember ever having a bad dream, or anything.  I just found it fascinating.  Like I later did with Mom's nursing school books.  Making me the coolest 10-year old familiar with the PDR (Physicians Desk Reference) and Merck's .  (Suck it, Doogie Howser, M.D.)   I've always had a curious streak.  Then a few years later Dad was forced to shoot and kill a man. (Story link here)   ...So, I've always, from an early age, known that I might have to kill a human.  Circumstances conspire and you're in an only-one-of-us-is-going-home, and I'm goin' the fuck home.  And boom.  There's a body.  I accepted this reality a long ass time ago.

Obviously, I'm not a monster.  I hope I never have to kill a person.  But if I do?  Well, two things;  1) If ya've given me no other option than to kill you?  I.  Am.  Gonna.  Kill.  Your.  Ass.  

I have one way to kill a person in every room.  Some rooms have two.  They're not all the same and are easily accessible without being visible, or recognized on sight.  In my life I have only told one person the entirety of the weaponry at hand.  Ok.  I just told a fib.  He knew all but one.  (He:  my live in police officer beau) I just thought it was prudent to have a hold back in case I ever had to kill him.  (shrugs)  Look, if there's anything life has taught me at every fucking chance it's had it's that you can't be 100% sure of what tomorrow is gonna bring.  (Oh.  I see that that seems borderline bat shit crazy, and for an accountant's kid it would be.  As a copkid, my Dad would never speak to me again if he thought BBG HQ wasn't tactically tricked out.)  BBG Fun Fact:  The first move you make that let's me know it's to-the-death time?  I've already decided I'm going to kill you.

B) Have you met 'people'?  There are a lot of real fuckers out there.  The last time I grocery shopped I awarded myself a gold star for not slashing the throat of some broad who was too busy with her cell to be bothered with common civility, like, pulling off to the side as opposed to, let's say, abruptly stoppin' her shopping cart buggy (West Virginia shout out!) in the middle of the aisle.  I didn't think my frozen pizza offered the kinda edge necessary to accomplish the task, so I just repeated 'serenity now' until I tersely said, very Suzanne Sugerbakerly, "excuse me."  The kind that on first blush ya think is a request, but then ya realize ya just got, albeit politely-ish, ordered.  I'm just sayin', if every other day of life has taught me two things then it's that I know how to manage to not let dumbass people make me loose my cushy, compared to Oz, which I am currently watchin', existence. 

(Dear HBO GO,  We're gonna have to have a talk.  Have you not seen Netflix??  I swear, sometimes you make me insert a soundtrack of the ol' school AOL dial up noise.  So, get your shit together.   Regards, BBG)

I am not the continually loosin' my shit type.  I've never thrown a plate in anger so the universe is pretty fuckin' safe from me ever throwin' bullets because some dolt is tickin' me off.  Plus, I place a high value on the absurd, and the fixin's of a good story. 

...So, while I haven't had to kill a person (again, thankfully) the thought of it isn't very troubling, in the sense that I've already accepted that if we've gotten to that point?  My death was the only other choice, and I can't have that.  I know all to well the toll taking a life takes on the take-er with the Dad situation, so I don't mean to sound caviler about it, just keenly aware that if somethin' ever goes down I'm fully capable of takin' a human life, if the universe won't have it any other way.

But an animal?  Nope.  I just couldn't.  And, yes, I get that my burger doesn't grown on trees that are hugged everyday by people dancin' around dressed in tofu scented tu-tus.  (I, BBG, do hereby call dibs on the corporate name and/or likeness of 'Tofu-tus'.)  Ham, as much as I wish were the fuckin' case, doesn't magically appear with the wave of a wand.  Lemme short hand it for you, I have stopped the BBG(at the time)mobile to avoid running over an opossum. (In the country in the dead of night, so no witnesses or ramifications.)  A person who doesn't kill an opossum, an opossum!  One of the ugliest, creepy ass creatures in the animal kingdom.  If anything probably deserves to be looked at and immediately killed, it's an opossum.  Fact:  If you won't kill an opossum you're not gonna kill a cute animal.  (For the same reason that you can guarantee that a person who wears swimming nose plugs is definitely not gonna snort any powder-y substance.)

Congratulations!  You made it through the ramble!
(circling back is about to happen)

The fact that I'm having to set an internal reminder to settle myself probably tells ya all ya need to know about the (ugh) Cat Fight (the origin story).  But if you seriously don't have anything better to do...

When we last left off all cat action (or, 'catageddon' as my Mom calls it) was confined to the back deck, comprising the bulk of my in theory personal outdoor space.  And rendering it almost completely fucking useless to me with it's bio-hazard-y nature, thanks to my neighbor, and free-range cat feeding enthusiast, Kooky McBean. There were some behind the scenes ta-doin's that I wasn't ready to tip my hand about in the last post.  (ahem, hold backs)  The BBGville City Prosecutor has struck a deal with her that she shall ('shall', as in fuckin' must) cease feedin' these fuckin' cats.  (Doing so stops the clock on the legal proceedings looming over her head.)  If she's found to be feeding cats she will immediately be charged with contempt of court and forced to pay all court costs for both sides.  The deal also includes a provision the the BBGville City Health Department can make an unannounced visits to her home at literally any time for a random inspection of the premises, both inside and out and she may not deny them entry. 

When I got the final update from the City Prosecutor he mentioned that he hoped that would put an end to the situation.  I giggled.  And remember how long and how much effort it took to get her to comply with the Great Don't Feed The Birds Off Your Deck-Fest of 2011 (link to story).  I pretty much knew it was likely to be a when we talk again vs. a if

And guess fucking what?

I'm calling him today.  For today, I found this on my deck...

Hey, BBGW-ers, know what's cool?
Well, after a quick Googlin', according to the CDC
eleven can kill ya things including;

Super.  Fucking.  Cool.  No?

Now, again, I don't like having to play the girl in the bubble card, but this is what's posted in throughout the hospital system I use.  I have two items that apply to me.  (I miss out on a trifecta on a technicality.)  So, I'm pretty fuckin' sure I'm not supposed to be dealing with 11 herbs 'n spices ways to be die during mouse body disposal.  But this, my friends, is just the today-y latest. 

In the past week or so I started to notice a change in my sole remaining source of outdoorsiness, as the back area had been, for all intents and purposes made functionally unusable by Kooky McBean's actions.    

Last week-ish started looking like this in the front of BBG HQ:



One day returning to BBG HQ I found two kittens curled up at my garage door.  (Do I sound like I'm in any condition to have to deal with a cat creepin' into my garage and dying behind a 6' shelf?  Or that I'd fare well if one of these flea ridden fuckers shoots in my house infesting the whole BBGOperation?!?)  Again, I don't mean to sound like woe-is-fuckin'-me as much as it seems I am, but I can't pretend that this is just a general inconvenience to an otherwise up-to-snuff, healthwise, human. 

Once I noticed the activity in front I attempted to change it.  Nana told me that she and Papa kept some feral cats at bay (on their front porch) once by setting up mouse traps on the chairs they were beginning to frequent.  She said the clickity-clack of them frightened the cats away, but didn't harm them.  So, I gave that a whirl.


As you can see, that went exxxactly as planned.  In my defense, it was the first time I'd ever purchased or used a mouse trap.  In fact, when I asked for help locating them I didn't think they were called mouse traps 'cause I though that's what they call those black boxes ya see around the outside of stores 'n such were.  Honestly, I don't know why they don't call 'em mouse guillotines (aka:  Mousekotines [Trademark pending.  Suck it.])  Not only did the putting them into action part go poorly, the actual efficacy didn't break my way either.

Exhibit A:  Take a peek at one of those last pictures.  (lower, left)  See that cat on the bricks?  At my front door?  Notice what's right the fuck beside it completely un-sprung and deterring squat.

Another feline present: 
Bloody ass egg on my deck

And to put a perfect caper on the endevour, later when I was getting ready for bed I noticed I had a few places on my legs.  They were itchy.  I showered and squirted myself with some Benadryl spray.  Now, before last year?  I probably woulda scratched until the itch subsided or my skin tore open and bled, ya know which ever came first.  But now?  I can't have skin openings practically cobbling together embossed invitations for bacteria and virus.  Gold star, me for exercising pragmatic behavior.  The next day I showed my Mom the spots, she said they were flea bites.  I wonder were I got those?  So now I have been banned from going in my courtyard. 

Today I noticed the cats had been wilding and had knocked over a few plants.  Can I go 6' out of my front door to right them?  It doesn't strike me as being prudent, how 'bout you?  I'm leery to open my front door lest fleas try to breech the screen door.  I don't know how fleas function? 

Wait.  I resend ^^that^^ as being the caper.  The caper is actually this head exploding moment...

These.  Cats.

I see them from the window.  I try to shoo them away by knocking on the window.  Naturally, their feline-y response was to

SerinityRightFuckingNow, 9, 8, 7, 6...

Which tells me they are accustomed to Kooky McBean summoning them with a knock.  My non-cat expert senses tell me wild animals who aren't being courted by people are more skittish than this. 

My detective senses, which is actually a skill I posses.  (Do you know the kind of deducing, lead following, getting people to talk to you and tell you info they don't want to tell you [turning states evidence] and recon you need to employ to get to the decision maker at a McDonald's or Target?) tells me that Kooky McBean has moved her operation up front.  By the, I'm now leaving my garage door jusssssst a cat amount, I'm guessing she's made that a new safe haven. 
She's even gotten stealthier in her OG cat set up.  I no longer see an 'outdoor cat scratcher' when I glance out of my window.  I suspect her grill cover, so covertly raised oh-so-much at the bottom (and directly facing her floor to ceiling kitchen window) obscures some form of harboring and 'care' station. 

Can fleas come through the screen?  I don't know either, as a precaution I've had to keep my slider closed for obvious as fuck reasons.

Meanwhile, I remind myself that I'm not a cat killer.  Because unlike any person I might have to kill the cats aren't maliciously tryin' to kill me.  But Kooky McBean?  She's an option.



Anonymous said...

OMG!!!!! I know this is HORRIBLE but you've also made it HILARIOUS!!

Anonymous said...

Leave it to the pros. Call Animal Control. No collar = not a pet. shmoo

BigBrownGirl said...

@Anonymous, Thank you!

@Shmoo, "Animal Control" does not apply to cats. :( Apparently, only dogs (lions, tigers, et al) require controlling. (again, *sigh*)

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