When New Daddy Had an Affair

Ian works with a house cat. I repeat: Ian works with a house cat. I feel this fact alone should negate any work-related whining. Of course, everyone whines about work: bad days and stressful times are universal and inevitable.

But, again, he works with a house cat. I think I'd sail into work every morning, smiling manically, if my office offered a poodle or a cage full of gerbils. Or, you know, a house cat.

The first cat Ian worked with was named Pepper, but Pepper passed away a few months ago.

Enter Pepper's replacement: a five-month old kitten with enormous eyes, a tiny frame, and a darling nature. His name is Solo. He clings to people and loves to play. He's adorable.

Solo the kitten

As you can imagine, Ian's in love. And Spottswood's jealous.

This is my Daddy, and I don't share him.

Every evening, Ian returns home from work smelling like another cat. Last night I had to tell Spottswood the painful truth: Daddy's having an affair.

Daddy's having a what now?

Spottswood recoils at a Daddy who "reeks" of another cat. (Spottswood's word; not mine). Spottswood stares in wide-eyed horror as he breathes in the "stench" of that "harlot." (Again, Spottswood's words).

I've implored Spottswood to please refrain from such language, encouraging him to use more delicate terms such as "courtesan," "comfort cat," "feline escort," "kitty masseuse," "kitty of negotiable affections," "one night cat," or "kitty of easy virtue."

I've encouraged Spottswood to discuss his feelings with Daddy. Instead, Spottswood runs away in disgust the minute he gets a whiff of Solo on Ian's clothes. The reality of the affair is too much for him.

Comforting Spottswood 

These work-place affairs wreak havoc on families. I'm hoping we can all move on from this. 

But Ian's really enamored with Solo. We're taking it day-by-day. I hope for a positive update in the future. Pray for us.

The Greenhouse

When you write a blog, you look for the absurd moments in life. You seize on the wild and unpredictable because those things make really, really, really good writing material.

But sometimes you wake up in the morning, realize you haven't posted all week, and panic because you have absolutely nothing interesting to say.

Then you glance around the kitchen and hope a rhino will suddenly smash through the walls, snorting, roaring, shrieking, and charging. Because that stuff makes for great blogging.

You guys, my life is boring right now. Work is monotonous. I sit all day.

Remember when you were a kid, and college was the key? And once you finished college, you would have a meaningful, interesting life because you would have a meaningful, interesting job?

WELL THEY LIED. PEOPLE WHO WORK IN WINDOWLESS CUBICLES HATE THEIR LIVES.

My life is so boring, I once took a detour home, thinking I'd feel dangerous and wild.

Ian: "Egads! Laura is late. In another hour, I shall file her as a missing person."

Laura: "LOL. I am wild! And dangerous! And LATE!"

Instead I arrived home at the same time I always arrive home.

Luckily when I arrive home from work, I return to these knuckleheads:

I think Ian and I are still trying to figure out what the hell we want to do in life. It seems a shame to waste an entire life in a windowless cubicle.

Especially when I'm wishing the hours away, impatient to get home to New Daddy, encased in dirt and grime, and three furry hoodlums who have spent the day dragging our clothes all over the house, digging through the plants, and exploring the cabinets.

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SPOTTSWOOD, THAT'S WHERE WE KEEP THE ANT POISON).

Did someone say poison?

That's how it goes, I suppose. While we're at work, the baby sniffs out the poison. IT'S A METAPHOR FOR LIFE. THE CAT'S IN THE CRADLE AND THE SILVER SPOON.

Ian understands my frustrations, and we're slowly plotting our escape. I mentioned the greenhouse a few weeks ago. It's almost finished. It's a bit haphazard, but it's beautiful.

Laura Denounces Hippie Medicine and Kicks Acid Reflux Ass

Remember when I posted about going the hippie route to combat acid reflux? I was taking two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar every day to fight acid reflux, as directed by internet hippies.

I only lasted three days. First, apple cider vinegar tastes... well, like vinegar. It tastes awful.

Second, the apple cider vinegar didn't do very much. I think it mighta, sorta, kinda worked. Maybe? A little? I figure any relief I felt was due to the placebo effect, so I guess you could call it delusional relief.

I did find a cure for my reflux, eventually. I'm not going to let internet hippies hog all the limelight with their sick, twisted "cure" so I'd like to offer my own internet remedy.

The following are Winiferd in the Burb's official steps to combating acid reflux:

1. Drive to the grocery store, feeling highly acidic and wildly desperate.

2. Buy Prilosec. (Which you totally forgot existed and therefore totally forgot to try).

3. Take Prilosec.

4. Feel relief.

I have now formally renounced all hippie medicine. I was all set to try local honey for my allergies, but I think I'll pass because SERIOUSLY. THIS GODDESS OF THE EARTH CRAP DOESN'T WORK.

Big pharma, I'm sorry I doubted you. I love you, with all your chemicals and poisons and frightening side-effects. Let's be friends forever.

Winnie Loves New Daddy

Something bizarre has been happening lately. Perhaps it was the promise of the treacly sweet Valentine's Day, or perhaps it was the cold, sleety weather. But for the past few days, Winnie has been enamored with New Daddy.

Winnie typically clings to me. Firstly because I'm Mama, and secondly because she's skittish and timid around New Daddy, who yells at her if she acts like a dog. As you can imagine, New Daddy yells at her a lot.

So imagine our collective surprise when Winnie began insisting on sitting next to New Daddy all the time. She follows hims, curls up next to him, and gazes at him. It's the strangest thing.

In the evenings after work, Winnie usually frolics and skips and fetches her toys so she can play ferocious games of Tug of War. But last night she slept on New Daddy's legs until he dumped her on the floor.

Ian: "She's HOT. My legs are on fire."

Laura: "Her body temperature stays at furnace levels."

Ian: "She's HOT. Get away from me, dog. I'm burning up."

Laura: "Personally, I like how she functions as a heater."

Ian: "GO AWAY, DOG."

Then Ian and Winnie began playing a game, where Ian shifted, wiggled, and kicked while Winnie tried to snuggle with him. Winnie won.

It was adorable.

Happy Valentine's Day!

In Which Laura Becomes a Hippie and Fights Back Against the Fire-Breather in Her Esophagus

Hey guys! Let's talk about something exciting! Let's talk about Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease! Oh boy!

I suffer from chronic acid reflux known as GERD. I've been using Pepcid AC and Zantac to control it. And I've popped a lot of that stuff.

Self-described hippie Ian said nothing, but silently disapproved of my contribution to Big Pharma and its poisonous pills (YOU DON'T HAVE TO SAY THESE THINGS, IAN. I JUST KNOW).

However, the over-the-counter stuff recently stopped working. The maximum dose of Pepcid or Zantac is two pills per day. By last week I was popping between 8 and 10 Zantacs per day and getting nervous about sprouting a tail and horns.

I knew I wouldn't be able to visit the doctor for at least a week. So I did what I always do in desperate situations: I Google.

Google reminded me of that old hippie remedy for acid reflux. Hippies all over the internet testify to the acid-fighting powers of apple cider vinegar.

Except, apple cider vinegar contains a veritable shit-ton of acid. But that's the beauty of it. It's the Principle of Similars, otherwise known as Homeopathy. Basically, you cure disease by introducing the same substance that causes the symptoms. AIN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?  

I was prepared to try new-age crap before revisiting Big Pharma crap. So Ian and I ran to Kroger where I bought a jug of raw, organic, unfiltered apple cider vinegar.

Apple cider vinegar contains all of the following attributes:

1. It's highly acidic. In fact, it's so acidic that you should drink it through a straw since the acid can remove enamel from your teeth.

2. You shouldn't shoot apple cider vinegar straight, but mix it with water. Since, again, it can remove enamel from your teeth.

3. Apple cider vinegar tastes like fermented pee pee.

I gagged and groaned, but I sent two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar down the hatch. Ian shot it straight, despite my protests of, "YOU'LL KILL YOUR ENAMEL!"

Actually, he feels compelled to try everything I try. I once bought "fancy" women's multivitamins which he begged to try.

Laura: "Ian, these are for women."

Ian: "But they're gummy!"

Laura: "They contain folic acid and iron."

Ian: "But they look delicious!"

Laura: "Fine. Have one."

Ian: "Can I have two?"

Another time, he opened my brand new bottle of facial cleanser and appeared to give it a taste.

Laura: "GOOD GOD, STOP! THAT HAS BLEACH IN IT!"

Ian: "I wasn't tasting it. I was just... inspecting it."

Anyways, I downed two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar last night and one tablespoon this morning.

I feel slightly less reflux-y, but it'll take a couple of weeks until I know anything conclusive. I'll report back in a fortnight.

The Roseanne Plot Thickens

I never expected events to turn like this when I first posted about Roseanne.

Truthfully, on that particular day, I felt completely devoid of writing material so I threw together a post on Roseanne and immediately started thinking about how we could coax the dog to dance for a future post.

But mere hours after blogging about the show, Netflix yanked it from its rotation. Which, honestly, made for great blogging. Anyways, we hate Netflix now.

But the plot thickens. The day after Netflix banished Roseanne, Roseanne Barr formally announced her Green Party candidacy.

Coincidence? I think not.

Ian's convinced the corporate wonders at Netflix are mad about Roseanne entering politics and thus dropped her show. I'm convinced my blog elevated Roseanne into the political stratosphere, making her a viable Green Party nominee.

As a candidate, Roseanne wants to end the money economy and establish a barter system instead. Which Ian and I would be fine with, since we will soon own chickens, eggs, and plenty of food crops. We also have a little white dog that Ian would love to use as barter.

Roseanne also wants to end the system of patriarchy in the U.S., saying, "Patriarchy is impotent and qualitatively unable to solve even the most simple problems in the cosmos such as picking up their own socks or placing a carton of milk back in the refrigerator after drinking from it."

I can't think of anything more prolific than that. I highly respect any politician who explains or even notices man's incapability of folding towels or cleaning the bathtub.

Ergo, I feel it only right that Winiferd in the Burbs endorse Roseanne Barr as the Green Party candidate. And as for you, Jill Stein? Harley Mikkelson? Kent Mesplay? YOU ARE GOING DOWN.

Given my involvement with the political rise of Roseanne Barr, I'm hoping she'll hire me as her adviser. I will advise the following for her White House Cabinet:

Vice President 
Dan Conner

Department of State
Aunt Jackie

Department of the Treasury

Darlene Conner

Department of Defense 

Old Becky 

Department of Justice

New Becky

Department of the Interior

D.J. Conner

Department of Agriculture

That gay man Roseanne worked for, umm... Leon.

There are about ten other departments to fill so I'm just going to appoint Dan to all of them. 

*Winiferd in the Burbs hereby supports Roseanne Barr for the Green Party nomination. Be patriotic. Vote Roseanne. The woman and the show.

*Winiferd in the Burbs hereby despises Netflix and advocates for a full boycott against the company that drinks Hatorade and totally sucks.

When Netflix Ruined Our Lives

There once was a time when Redbox nearly ruined our lives. There was also a time when Netflix saved us, and was a shining beacon of light and goodness in a dark and malevolent world.

We strode forth, believing Netflix to be the pinnacle of entertainment. Then they did that greedy, ridiculous price gouge, where people who rented DVDs and streamed video saw a whopping 60% price increase.

We dropped the DVD rental and opted for just streaming instead.

We saw the cracks. We ignored them. We reminded ourselves that streaming video is the future.

We felt safe and warm inside, like how rich white men must feel when they wrap themselves in a blanket of exorbitant wealth and white male superiority. We were safe.

Last week, we began obsessively watching Roseanne reruns on Netflix. This is the big time, baby! This is the future!

Mere hours after posting about our obsession with Roseanne, Netflix yanked the show. Ian and I arrived home from work, frothing for an escape into the world of low wages and working-class stress (my God, it's like they know us!).

Instead we discovered Netflix, in all its corporate wisdom, had banished the show from its rotation. Gone. Kaput.

Wut.

They took Roseanne away from us when we were in the middle of season 5. It was the television equivalent of Hitler invading France. Netflix was a bastard. A traitor. A Benedict Arnold. Shit was gonna fly.

Ian: "I HATE MY LIFE. I HATE NETFLIX. I'M GOING TO CALL THEM AND COMPLAIN. NO, WAIT. I'M GOING TO CANCEL NETFLIX. THIS CRAP ISN'T WORTH THE MONEY. SEE YOU IN HELL, NETFLIX."

I reacted by scouring the internet for full Roseanne episodes for free. You see, I am extremely cheap and refuse to spend money on most modes of entertainment. Much like healthcare, I believe television should be free and easily accessible.

Luckily I was raised with no cable, so I knew exactly how to react in such a dire situation: I hopped on Youtube and found full-length episodes of Roseanne.

We air-played the episodes onto the TV, breathed a sigh of relief, and embraced the electronic fuzz of our blessed picture box.

And all was right with the world.

Postscript: We'll probably ditch Netflix in favor of a Hulu subscription. If things get crazy, I'll post a suitably hyperbolic response.

When Roseanne Took Over Our Lives

The two major things happening at the Winiferd house are at once intertwined and incompatible. Brace yourselves for some heady stuff, people. This is about to get intense.

1. In the beginning of January, Netflix started offering every single episode of Roseanne. We realized this mid-January and have been steadily watching slews of episodes every night.

I'm a life-long fan of Roseanne. I can even forgive that last season, since Roseanne still offered us years of high-quality, cutting-edge comedy. Roseanne was way ahead of its time.

Even in 2012, Roseanne is way ahead of its time. No other show tackled issues of the working class, teenage sexuality, big corporations, and lack of a living wage the way Roseanne did.

Ian had never watched Roseanne. He had no idea what was coming.

I did. In college, I would stay up all night watching Roseanne reruns on Nick at Nite. It was a sickness.

So when Ian entered the world of Roseanne with his 9:00pm bedtime, I knew there would be issues. Deep issues. After watching six hours of Roseanne, we reach a manic point of internal conflict: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, WE MUST TURN OFF THIS SHOW; WE NEED TO SLEEP.

We struggle to rip ourselves away from Roseanne, or more accurately, Darlene and Dan. (BECAUSE YOU KNOW THEY'RE THE BEST CHARACTERS. YOU KNOW THEY ARE).

This family haunts us. They won't let us sleep.

We stagger to bed far too late, reasoning that we've only lost about an hour of sleep. We'll be fine! Let's hit the hay!

2. Here comes the incompatible part: I have no idea why or how, but every single blasted animal living in our house innately knows when we go to bed late.

The night we go to bed late is the night Harvey scratches on the door frames until the wee hours, Spottswood pounds up and down the hallway, and Winnie barks manically at the wayward cats.

It's also the night Winnie needs three potty breaks in a matter of six hours. Dog, I thought you had outgrown this shit. And I'm not talking metaphorical shit. I'm talking literal shit.

Do not be deceived. This dog has to doo doo.

We should rename the pets Roseanne One, Roseanne Two, and Roseanne Three, so we can remember the real reason for our lethargy and blame the culprit appropriately.

And you know how sleep-deprived people handle this situation? After a loooong day of feeling sluggish, they come home and watch eleven more hours of Roseanne.

Tonight will be vicious; I can feel it. This is the night Darlene leaves for art school, and you just can't rip yourself away from something like that.

We're only human. We bleed when cut.

Somebody. Anybody. Stage an intervention. PLEASE HELP US.