If Life's a Beach...

Ah, periods. Lovely reds. The wonderful monthlies. Mother Nature's gift.... whatever you call it, menstruating is not a fun process. And of course, humans have come up with many ways to avoid it... it's called being "fixed"... or in other words, birth control. For a few years now, I have been on the depo shot... but have decided to stop using it, as it depletes the calcium in your bones... something I definitely don't need to have considering the many dangerous activities I engage in (you know, climbing trees and awaiting handsome firefighters to come to my rescue, hitching a ride on the backs of beasts of burden who do no always appreciate my presence, the normal cat's life...).

Upon deciding to let my body return to nature's natural course, however, I had unknowingly released a demon of unnatural, frightening, terrifying proportions. It soon began to rear it's ugly head for spurts of time which sent me climbing to the rooftops (sometimes not in a good way), and then spiraling down to the depths of the oceans the next moment. You guessed it: It is (I say is, because it is very current) the Hormone Monster. That creature every female has come to dread in their lifetime.



If Life's a Beach...My periods must be drawing the sharks.



Whomever decided to create the phrase "Life's a Beach" clearly was not female. Given the certainties of menstrual cramps, raging hormones, pap smears, and the likelihood of pregnancy (AKA giving birth to yet another monster 5X larger than the orifice it is coming out of).... it definitely, under no questionable circumstances whatsoever, was not a female who wrote that.

For that matter, lets talk about pap smears for a moment, shall we?

I was a little disconcerted when a tom cat in his late 50's walked in the room to do my first pap smear, but I figured, "Oh, well, it's a shot. What can it hurt if a guy does it?" Oh, my, the irony of my innocence.

The vet proceeded to ask me how long I had been actively raising my but in the air for other toms, when I had come into heat last, etc... all of which I ended up answering with a very disappointing, "My last heat... well, I'm not quite sure. They are completely irregular. Always have been. I stopped keeping track..." and other similar answers.

Firstly, I had gone to the bathroom not ten minutes before they handed me the cup to pee in, so I could only hope I could squeeze out enough for them to be satisfied. As it is, peeing in a cup and pawing over this now hot cup to them is just weird, disconcerting, and in all other ways, disturbing and embarrassing. Perhaps I need to grow up, but I've always been a little uncomfortable with this part of any veterinary procedures.

Now, You see, the previous night, my mate had proceeded to draw on my inner thighs with a pen, illustrating and writing rather lewd material. Imagine my horror when I went into the bathroom to pee into the little cup to prove I wasn't pregnant and remembered I had drawings of tongues and fingers on my inner thighs with things like "Lick here" written beside them! I scrubbed frantically at my legs with a paper towel and soap until my fur was falling out, but it only did so much to erase the ink. Finally, I gave up, and walked back into the room.

So the vet asks me to move down on the table and spread my legs. He starts to insert his Evil Contraption of Terror to spread me open, but my lady area was having none of it. She clamped down and refused to allow him entrance. Sighing, he asked me to try to relax, and after a brief argument with my body, I managed to relax.

Ladies, you have NOT lived until you have felt cold air circulate where it should never be felt!

The vet warned me that I might feel a little tug, but that this wouldn't hurt a bit... they just had to take a sample. I nodded, and closed my eyes, only to feel a sharp pain deep. I jumped and scowled down at the man, who had turned away with his little sample, happily ignorant of the fiery darts I was shoot from my eyes. I lowered my head and closed my eyes once more, preparing for whatever torture he had set up for me.

"I'm going to feel your ovaries now," he said, and started prodding around my groin, and I was relieved that part of this did not involve invading inside further. Oh, how wrong I was.

Without warning, the man's cold, gloved hand inserted itself fully. My heart nearly stopped from the shock, and I think that if the Evil Contraption of Terror had not been there, he may have lost his hand forever.

I was ever so relieved when the Evil Contraption of Terror was unclasped a short while later.

I have to give the vet credit. He really did all he could to make me feel as comfortable as I possibly could, and I don't suppose any other male doctor could have done any better, however uncomfortable and invaded I may have felt. So, cheers, mate. You did the best any man could do while handling a kitty's ovaries.

Introducing Pissy Pussy

While I try to stay a fairly fun, positive, happy woman... from time to time, we all have to have those moments when life just sucks. Now, being a Christian, I do believe they are a test of faith. But sometimes, I think God understands when we need to express our irritation in some outlet or another. My outlet is to become Pissy Pussy. This is Pissy Pussy's first expression to the world. So, without further ado, I present Pissy Pussy... the Grouchy Cat.

Before I begin, let me explain that I am just coming off of Kitten Control, and my hormones are raging, tossing my emotions right and left like a dangly toy smacked around by a paw. Along with this, I recently tweaked my back and have pinched a nerve... so my normal, lithe cat-walk is gone, and in its place is a crotchety old nag stagger. Lifting and bending is very uncomfortable. But still, I have not let this affect my mood too terribly for the past 4 days...but today it only added to my touchiness. So, now that you understand the circumstances, let me begin...

You know, sometimes life is like that annoying alarm clock you had as a teenager (or may still have) that would wake you from your peaceful catnap (I don't know about the rest of you, but my "catnaps" last up to 16 hours) with an abrupt, blaring buzzer. The kind that makes you jump 5 five in the air, your whiskers fall off from fright, hackles up, tail fuzzed, and hissing.

I had one of those mornings this morning. I was dreaming a pleasent dream of catnip and warm sun when I was awoken by the buzzing of that damned contraption I have somehow become attached to that buzzes wildly when someone on the other side of the line feels the need to harass me.

Once I have answered it and drug myself out of the dredges of sleep, I must prepare myself for the day. You know, brush the fur, powder the haggard sleep-face. Which was not enough to put me in a bad mood...yet.

First, the mate wants to snuggle longer, which I don't mind, but we are very late waking up and we have places to go, mice to hunt, fish to fry.

As I am powdering the face, my paws slip and I manage to dump half of my powder in the sink and on the floor. SNAP.

F My Life.

My mood has just shifted from lazy and noncommittal to irritable. Pissy Pussy is now wide awake.

I decide, perhaps I don't want to attend that Mouse catching class... maybe I'd rather stay home and curl up beneath the covers and take another 16 hour catnap. Yes... that sounds much more enticing than facing the world....but no... the mate insists I must go. So I continue to prepare myself. I am not snapping at him yet... but I'm cool and distant in an attempt not to snap at him.

On the ride to our mouse-catching classes, the mate brings up multiple times he had wanted to leave earlier, had hoped to do a few things before mouse catching class. Things he never mentioned last night at all. This irks me, but I stay quiet, trying to hold my tongue. When he brings it up a fifth time, I snap.

"If you wanted to get here earlier, you should have told me."

"Well from now on I'm dragging you out of the house, no matter how you look," he growls back.

"No, next time you will tell me so I can set an alarm and be up and ready before you even get out of bed," I hiss.

Well, now I've done it. Set the tone for the whole rest of the day. I may be Pissy Pussy, but I admit to being very emotionally vulnerable, and when someone else I care about is irritated or upset with me, it absolutely slaughters the rest of my day.

Why is it that life with mates is so complicated? Why is it so hard for people to consider eachother's needs and wants? Why is it that periodically, the mates must fight or something is "wrong" with the relationship? Why can't they just take catnaps together for the rest of their lives, give eachother the gift of catnip or fish (mmm...shushi), and live together in peace? Why must there always be upsets? Who decided that should be a requirement anyway??? Why do life with mates haveto stink life up so badly?

I love life, don't get me wrong. I love sunbathing by a window, and curling up with a purr next to my mate... but sometimes relationships start to stink worse than that mouse I caught and forgot behind the couch for a week. Just sayin'.

Sincerely,

And so Pissy Pussy makes her first appearance in blog form. Please comment and share your Pissy moments:)