I Once Pooped in a Cat Litter-Box.

True story.  I considered ending my blog here because, well, I just gave away the ending.  But being me, I think that I will give you an overly detailed account of what happened that day and how I found myself in the back of my Jeep, in the middle of the day, having diarrhea in a cat litter box.  With a cat watching.




The day started out like any other overly hot summer day where I had gotten drunk on cheap beer the night before.  I was 22, for chrissakes.  I had stayed over at my friend Rachel's house and had brought my new kitten, Akira.  I didn't really bring her because I WANTED to, it was more like, if I didn't bring her along I would get a phone call from my mother at 2 in the morning saying "COME HOME.  YOUR CAT WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP.  SHE HAS BEEN YOWLING FOR 2 HOURS."  Nothing is worse than being half drunk and seeing your phone ring and knowing, just knowing without looking at it that it's your mom and that she is pissed because your cat is yowling because it is locked in your room because she wont let it out because she is afraid it is going to run around the house and destroy everything since it has all it's claws.  Your face automatically molds into one of angst, fear, and utter disappointment.  Now you have to drive home partially drunk and tend to your cat who probably wont shut up even when you are in the room with her.  So THEN you will be even LESS drunk, laying in bed with a yowling Siamese kitten, with a mother across the hall who is fuming out of the ears.

That is why I saved myself the trouble and brought little Akira with me in her carrier case, along with food and water for her and a litter-box in case she had to go potty.  Rachel and I stuck her in the spare room and she didn't even yowl.  Probably because she was fucking petrified of being in a new house with a possibly insane dog sniffing under the door at her, along with strange people coming in and out of the room to pick her up and making comments like "Aren't her ears a little big for her head?" and "Are you sure she isn't retarded?"  Things like that tend to set you on edge, if you're a human OR a cat.

So Rachel and I and a few other select buddies proceeded to drink a large amount of cheap beer and make fun of reality television.  I am a firm believer that watching reality television raises my self-esteem.  I mean I thought I was slightly insane?  These people are willing to compete with each other over a man they have never met.  He could be a closet rapist.  THEY could be closet rapists.  It's a recipe for disaster.  Disaster that coincidentally makes me feel like a much better human being for not participating in it.

So the next morning I wake up with a 'rumbly in my tumbly' as Pooh would say.  It was a 'I'm kinda hungry let's get hangover food' kind of rumbly, it was the 'get the hell out of my way or my butt might explode all over your house' kind of rumbly.  I rolled off the couch and hurried towards the bathroom, which was OCCUPIED.

Me: Hey Rach?  Are you going to be long?  I gotta go ppppoooottttyyy bbbaaaadddd.

Rach: I wouldn't use this one unless you are just going pee, man.  The toilet is shit and wont flush right.

Me: It's okay....I can hold it.

I LIED.  I HAD TO GO.  I HAD TO GO RIGHT NOW OR I WAS GOING TO POOP MY PANTS.  NO JOKE.  The urge in my stomach had moved down to my butt muscles, which were clenching with the effort of holding back what was to come.  I pondered my options.  I could go outside, Rachel's roommate had a dog, maybe they would just think the dog did it.  Then I was bombarded with the mental image of Rachel's roommate Kim waking up to have a nice cup of coffee outside on the back porch and seeing me, pants down, squatting next to the fence, emptying my lower intestine.  The embarrassment would have most certainly killed me, or sent me into a coma which I would not recover from until everyone was sure to have forgotten the 'Britt Shitting in the Backyard' incident.

I heard Akira yowling.  I would have to make a break for it.  I would have to just drive really really really fast and find the first place that offered a public restroom and deposit my load there.  That was IF I didn't poop my pants by that time.

Almost paralyzed with cramps, I hurried and gathered all of Akira's things and shoved her into her little carrier.  "ByeRachelIgottagobutIwillcallyalaterok?!?!"  I said it pretty much all in one breath, because there was no time to lose.  Evacuation of my intestines was eminent.  The end was very fucking nigh.

I jumped into my car and let Akira out of her case.  I usually let her roam around the car while I was driving because otherwise she made noises like a baby being poked with a branding iron while being circumcised.  That was a mistake, as I found out later.  I sat in the drivers seat and BAM.  I knew.  I knew that if I didn't find some place to poop NOW I was going to poop my pants.  That's when I remembered the litter box.

There was no time to wonder if it was a good idea.  It was the only idea I had.  I opened the back of my Jeep and placed the litter-box in the cargo-space.  I then closed the back of the Jeep, looked to make sure no cars were coming......

and pooped in the litter-box.

Instantly I was relieved.  It was like I had just given birth to a baby elephant, through my butt. In that moment, someone could have come up to the car and looked in the window and I wouldn't have cared.  All that mattered was that I was no longer in pain, and that I didn't poop my pants.

Little did I know I was headed for disaster.

I felt something by my foot.  I looked down to see Akira, eyes wide, staring at me.  I could have sworn that the look in her eyes was one of admiration.  I bet she was thinking, 'Wow, that's a big poop.'  She wasn't content with just looking though, being a cat, and a slightly retarded one at that, she had to check it out.

So she got into the litter-box.  She stepped in my poo.

My cat stepped in my poop, and then proceeded to run around the Jeep with poo all over her paws, leaving light brown remnants of my poo trailing behind her.

That's when the fact that I had just pooped in a litter-box hit me.  That and the fact that I had nothing to wipe with.  I used a shirt.

I had to put Akira back in her carrier to prevent more poo from being trailed all over my car.  I drove home feeling a combination of shame and pride.  I mean, at least I hadn't pooped my pants.

'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat'

If you were any kind of Calvin and Hobbes fan, you know what I mean by 'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat.'  If you don't know what I am talking about, I would say that the title is pretty much self explanatory.  It's homicidal, it's from the jungle, and it is assuredly mentally unstable.

To get to the point, I have one of those cats.

You would never know it by looking at him.  I mean...he's fucking ADORABLE.  People melt into a sticky puddle of goo when they see him.  In fact, he is so cute people develop a speech impediment when they are around him. His name is Pringles, but pretty much everybody calls him Pwingwes.  It's just easier that way.  And cuter.  Like Pwingwes.

Anyway.  You wouldn't think he was a 'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat' when you see him belly-up on his bed, a contented half-smile playing across his fuzzy face...but he is...ooohhhh he most certainly is.  The transformation usually comes at night, but he has been known to 'cross over' in the middle of the day, if it's especially nice outside.

You see, Pringles used to be allowed to roam a few acres of property at his last home.  He could do what he damn well pleased; eat animals possibly infected with the Rage, poop EVERYWHERE, chase EVERYTHING, and harass other cats within an inch of their lives.  Now that we live in an apartment, he's not allowed to go outside.

You might think that this is cruel, but you know what?  Piss off.  You know what would be cruel, a small, flattened, twitching Pringles on the side of the road.  THAT would be cruel.  And that is the image that haunts me every time he begs at the screen door to go out.

I try to tell myself that it's the fact that he can't go outside that turns him into a 'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat' , but deep down, I think it's been in him all along, and that he sleeps all day because he is WAITING.  Waiting for the most opportune time to come out of his shell and terrorize anyone in his path.  Which is ALWAYS me.  And sometimes my boyfriend.  But mostly me.

Let me set the scene for you.

5:17 a.m. Place- My bedroom. Ambience- Peaceful.  I have been asleep for nearly 5 hours.  I have my kitty-cat eye mask on to prevent any unwanted awakenings by my boyfriend going to the bathroom or a rogue car pulling into our parking lot.  My head is full of sweet dreams about me owning a Vespa and cruising around town while everyone points and says ''She must be the coolest girl ever.  Look at her in that Vespa.'

THEN IT STARTS.

First it's the rustling.  It's not loud.  It doesn't wake up my boyfriend, but it wakes ME up.  Because I KNOW that shit is about to go down.

The rustling might be coming from under the futon in our bedroom.  It might be coming from the hall.  It might be coming from the bathroom.  IT MIGHT BE COMING FROM EVERYWHERE AT ONCE.  It is impossible to pinpoint it.  The creepy thing is, if at this point in time I sit up and look around to see where the sound is coming from, Pringles is always sitting PERFECTLY STILL, looking at me like, 'What?  Why are you up?  Mind your own business.  I'm not doing anything but sitting here.  Go back to sleep and dream about your Vespa.'

This is why now I just lay and wait during the rustling stage.  Because I know what he's doing.  He can't pull the wool over my eyes so easily.  He is looking for a hair-tie.

Hair-ties are like crack to Pringles.  They are the only things he plays with.  Sometimes he will settle for a rubber-band, but hair ties are his favorite.  What does he do with them?  He bats at them.  He runs full speed into a room, goes straight for the hair tie, bats at it, and then runs away at full speed.  Like he is playing tag.  With an inanimate object.  And he's losing.  At first it was funny, and now...well now it's still funny.  BUT NOT AT 5:17 IN THE MORNING.

So it's roughly 5:20 and Pringles has rustled up a hair-tie.  Now the adventure begins.  It's time to run laps around the apartment, to impress and intimidate the hair tie with his predatory prowess.  I have to admit, he is VERY fast and his turning radius is mind-blowing.  Sometimes his turns are so sharp his body almost forms a perfect right angle with the wall.  I swear to God.   I have often pondered creating a faux-racetrack around the apartment and watching him while making car noises.  It would be like Nascar, but better. Despite the fact that he is supremely fast, sometimes he has trouble avoiding obstacles.  Like the couch.  Or a table.  These he usually runs into head-on, or slides into when he can't get enough traction with his claws.  You can tell when this happens but the alarming THUNK.  That sound always makes me smile to myself...'You're not as awesome as you think you are, Pringles, the couch has outsmarted you again by STAYING IN THE SAME PLACE IT'S ALWAYS BEEN.'

Once Pringles has found his hair-tie and intimidated it sufficiently, he usually decides to bring it to ME and show ME how awesome he is.  I hear him come into the room, on his adorable, tiny, kitty-cat paws.  Then I feel his gaze from the end of the bed.  I physically FEEL it.  He knows that I know what he is about to do, and he wants to drag out the suspense as long as possible.

The I feel a slight plop.  That's the hair-tie being thrown on the bed, near my feet.  A split second later, Pringles arrives.  This is when it gets ugly.  At my feet (usually in between my feet) a horrific war breaks out between Pringles and the hair tie.  He tries to grasp it with his feet (which is almost impossible since he has no thumbs), pulls on it with his teeth, bats at it, pushes it off the bed,and then brings it back on the bed, to start fighting it again.  This can last anywhere between 5 to 20 minutes, until he is satisfied that he has won.  This is usually signaled by him laying on top of the hair-tie. Sometimes, mind you, SOMETIMES this means the battle is over and he can pass out knowing that he has conquered his enemy.  But MOST of the time he discovers another enemy on the battlefield.  My feet.  Pringles obviously thinks that my feet are evil monsters that live under the blanket whose soul purpose is to taunt him with their occasional movement.  

Another battle ensues.  Pringles refuses to actually go under the blankets (God knows why) so he uses his paws to shove them up my legs and expose my feet.  Once my delicate toes are exposed, he attacks them.  Claws out, fangs bared, hair standing completely on end.  He looks like an adorable, rabid raccoon.  At least I think so, but my feet have a different opinion.  They are currently being mauled, despite my best efforts to wrap them in protective blankets.  Pringles is very, very good at fitting his little paws in between my defenses.  

I know what you're thinking.  'Just kick him off the bed, Brittany, God.'  But it's not that easy.  Kicking him off the bed only fuels his rage, you see.  Kicking him off the bed assures at least 5 more minutes of sporadic attacks on my precious feet.  I have found through multiple, painful experiences that it is better to just ride it out.

After my feet are bloodied and I am fully awake, Pringles is satisfied.  He then proceeds to pass out.  Not just fall asleep, but completely PASS the fuck OUT.  By this time it's a quarter to 7 and I know that my alarm will go off in an hour.  I usually spend that hour petting Pringles and trying to go back to sleep.  Why am I petting him?  Because he is near me and he is soft and adorable and when he purrs my heart melts.  That's why.  By doing this I am sure that I am only reassuring him that yes, he is an excellent predator and yes, my feet and the hair-tie are dead as door-nails until tomorrow.  I don't care. I love him.  

This is how Pringles acts when I am up in a tree and he can't get at me to attack my feet.  I think he might have seperation anxiety.

Uterine RAGE.

So it is about a week before...ahem...THAT TIME and once again, I am an uncontrollable grab-bag of emotions.  Not unlike an uncontrollable grab-bag full of rabid cats on steroids. Do not ask me why i am writing a blog post about this, it's my blog, and I DO WHAT I WANT.  I think it's my duty to enlighten all of the men out there of exactly what is going through a woman's mind during this trying time in her life.

Firstly, we do NOT want to hear about your problems.  Our twisted minds only turn them into OUR problems.  You had a shitty day?  OURS WAS SHITTIER.  You're hungry?  We have been STARVING ALL FUCKING DAY.  Your back hurts?  We have advanced scoliosis and there is no hope for a cure.  In fact, we are dying.  We are dying slowly and there is nothing we can do about it.

Second, anything you say can and WILL be taken the wrong way.  I would like to state an example here, in the form of a conversation i had with my boyfriend only moments ago.

Me: I am thinking about starting a blog, so I am writing down a bunch of shit, and then I am going to edit it and post it.

Boyfriend: Aren't blogs supposed to be spur of the moment?

Me: WHY CAN'T YOU BE POSITIVE AND SUPPORT ME?! I WAS REALLY EXCITED ABOUT THIS! YOU ARE REALLY GETTING ME DOWN! I WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU WOULD STOP BEING SO NEGATIVE!!!

Boyfriend: What's your fucking problem?

Me: I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM! I AM PERFECTLY FINE! YOU ARE THE PROBLEM! *starts to cry*

You see? We can't control it.

Next, nothing pleases us, but at the same time, we want....no...we NEED you to TRY and please us.  Let us choose the movie and then bitch about how bad it is.  Make light of a situation, and then put up with us when we tell you how AWFUL it really is and how we can't understand how ANYONE could make light of something like THAT.  Be overly sweet, but don't expect us to be sweet in return.  Getting mad at us because we are bitchy on our period (ESPECIALLY SAYING "Geeze, you're bitchy, are you PMSing?") will result in DIRE consequences. Most of us will call ourselves out after catching ourselves doing something insane, like crying over how a shirt that didn't fit a year ago still doesn't fit NOW.

So, now you think you have it all figured out.  Just deal with the bitchiness, and eventually it will go away.
WRONG.
WRONGY WRONG WRONG.

Two words.  Mood swings.

Between the outbursts of random, unprovoked bitchiness, there will be outbursts of happiness.  EXTREME happiness. Just this morning I sent my boyfriend a text saying "I love you so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (with just about that many exclamation points).  Later, I bitched him out.  Today during lunch I got overly excited when I found out that there was leftover chicken in the fridge.  I danced around while it was microwaving, humming to myself happily.  Then, when I took it out, I decided that I was fat and that I didn't need to be eating it.  This brought me to tears.  This is the cycle.  Don't think you can handle it?  Buy a helmet and some ear plugs.

I belive that PMS was sent to us by God because as women, WE CAN HANDLE IT.  it might get a little rocky at times, but shit, if we can shove a watermelon sized, living, breathing being out of our vaginas we can handle a little blood coming out once a month.  Can't we? *starts to sniff* CAN'T WE???

OH MY GOD. I HAVE TO GO. I AM GETTING NO WORK DONE AND WILL DEFINITELY GET FIRED AND THEN LOSE MY APARTMENT AND THEN MY BOYFRIEND AND THEN MY CAT AND THEN WE WILL BE HOMELESS.