Why, cat, why?

I love animals, I really do; however, I am quickly falling out of love with my animals.  Yes, they're cute and cuddly and warm and fuzzy, and sometimes they make me laugh or say "aww," but more often than not, I'm looking at them with malice and contempt in my eyes.  They have turned my clean house into an episode of Clean House, and I'm very bitter and disgusted, to say the least. 

The majority of floor space in my house is either hardwood or tile.  The only carpeting in our house is in the bedrooms or the random small rugs that I've placed near entrances to our home.  Basically, we've got a 70/30 ratio of hard flooring to carpet, understand?  So, will someone please explain to me why my cat Chloe, the bane of my existence, alwasy feels the need to puke up her orange cat food in the carpeted areas, just inches away from the hardwood?

Here's a visual:

Cat food companies must be on a mission to add as much dye to their food as possible.  That way, whenever an animal pukes it back up (as cats often do), it will surely permanently stain the carpet.  My mom said she wants to invent clear cat food.  I think she's on to something here, I really do.  I would buy stock in clear cat food. 

Before you get all PETA on me, trust me, animal lovers, there's nothing medically wrong with Chloe.  She's been to the vet, and we've tried multiple foods - she pukes them all up.  I think she has a kitty eating disorder.  I've watched her gorge on food like Adam Richman on Man v. Food.  She actually purrs while she eats.  Then, like clockwork, up it comes only minutes later.  If she would just eat small bites like a normal cat, she'd be fine.  There's really nothing I can do, folks.  Except follow behind her with a bottle of Resolve and a garbage bag. 

Welcome to my glamorous life.  We flyin' first class up in the sky. 

Giant rat.

I'm an animal lover. People who know me know that I will go to the ends of the earth to save an animal. Many times I've dodged traffic to save a stray dog from certain death or slipped in mud and muck while trying to catch an abandoned kitten. With all of my good animal deeds, one would think I'd have a harem of great pets, right? Wrong.

My animals are all nightmares. All three of them. Little furry puking, pooping, peeing balls of nightmares.

Don't get me wrong. I love them.

Sometimes.

Most of the time I'm looking at them with malice in my eyes for the many presents they leave me on the floor. I'd say this look pretty much sums it up for me:

Thank God for my Steam Vac and my ability to somewhat keep a clean house otherwise these animals would get the best of me.

So, in keeping with their aggravating personas, tonight while I was putting something away in Anna's bib drawer, I had the scare of my life. Heart-attack inducing. Gut wrenching. Pass out on the ground and wake up 5 hours later scare.

A rat jumped out of the drawer.

A huge, gray and orange rat with big, freaky eyes and a furry tail. A rat that meowed much like one of my cats would meow. A rat with cat breath and cat whiskers.
A rat named Chloe.

Chloe the cat or rat had taken ownership of my daughter's bib drawer when it was semi-opened from earlier. I guess she assumed it was OK to nap in there because she certainly looked put-off after I opened the drawer and accused her of being a huge rat.

She is very rat-like, isn't she?

A visual.

Why do I have dark circles and bags under my eyes constantly?

Let me draw it out for you. Below is a graphical representation of our sleeping setup since my child has been teething.

As you can see from the beautiful drawing above, my child has taken ownership of our little queen bed. Joe and I have to hang on to our mattress for dear life while our precious child becomes the dash (-) to our little family H.

Throw in two fur ball cats, one of which can only sleep if she's on me in some capacity, and you have our sleeping setup in Casa de No Sleep.

I think we need a king bed, yes?

Who Wants a Pork Chop?

The back story...

I don't eat pork chops. So, what's with the blog name? My life, to be quite honest, is comedic. The random stuff that happens to me on a monthly, daily, hell, hourly basis is definitely blog-worthy. Or maybe I'm the only one who thinks so?

So, what's with the obsession with pork chops? Please keep reading.

To help you better understand my story, here's a little picture of the front door of my house.





This picture was taken before we moved in - the yellow and white papers on the door are not eviction notices, I promise. As you can see, the main section of the door is glass, so if anyone wanted to rob us blind, all they'd have to do is take a peek to see our goods. Once inside, they'd be disappointed to find that the only valuable thing we own is a broken camera and a Simple Human trash can.

On with it. God, I totally ramble. You will get used to this.

So, one night my husband (Joe) and I were sitting on the couch watching the tele. This is what boring people like us do every night. Halfway through whatever brainless program we were watching - probably a DVRd episode of Springer - I decided that I was thirsty and much too lazy to get up and fix myself a glass of tea. So, I lovingly asked my dear husband to fix me a drink. He just sat there and pretended he didn't hear me, much like he usually does. To sweeten the pot, I figured I'd give him a little flash of the ta-ta. What man can resist a boob the size of a small grape? Hell, a raisin? My man can't!

I called his name, and when he turned to look at me, I began the ta-ta flash process. Shirt was up, ta-ta was exposed, doorbell rings. Ding Dong. Here's the problem. You see my door. We had on the living room light and it was dark outside, no porch lights were on. The doorbell rang at the exact moment that my shirt was in mid-air. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that whomever was on the other side of that door got to see the goods. It was Mardi Gras 1998 all over again.

I kid, I kid.

Being the brave woman I am, I ran as quickly as I could to my bedroom to hide. Nothing like making it even more obvious, eh? Joe answers the door. It's our neighbor, and he's come bearing gifts. Er, a gift. Just one gift. That gift was a...

...

...

porkchop.

Just one porkchop. Not two. Just one. He came all the way over to our house to bring US (meaning Joe and me) ONE porkchop. We had never really even spoken to this man before and he randomly comes over to bring dinner for one person when he knows there are two people living in the house? That, my friends, was the most hilarious part of all. He got to see my boobs and all I got was a lousy pork chop that I didn't even get to eat because Joe woofed it down before I came out from hiding.

Niiice.

My friends have never let me live this down. They chose this blog name for me, and I hope to do them proud.

The contents of this blog will be random musings about my life, love, family, health, etc. There will be no structure here, so if you like a structured, predictable blog, leave.

Just kidding...sorta.

Here are a few of the topics up for discussion here (although ANYTHING and EVERYTHING goes):

My precious baby girl Anna.





My marriage.





My wonderful family.



My dog Cosmo.



My cat Harley.



My cat Chloe.



My sick obsession with American Idol and most reality television.



One Pork chop.


Until we meet again.