Witchful Thinking: A Halloween How-To

Sometimes, I like to pretend I am living a really romantic and poetic life. You know the kind you’d see in the first few minutes of the latest indie film where some girl who looks like she stepped out of a Free People photo shoot is lighting candles while Bon Iver plays in the background.

And you watch, knowing that this particular movie will most likely have a good 50 or so quotes that girls will make their statuses for the next 4 months and that there will be some guy in it with hair that is slightly too long (but if he cut it he’d be REALLY CUTE) but since its a little too long, he manages to achieve a sort of mysterious semi-sexy identity that makes you think that maybe he’s the kind of guy you’d consider having an affair with in the distant imaginary future. And the music.. yeahhhh, the music. Half the time these girl crazy status quoting long haired possibly cute male films are only good because of the soundtrack behind the scenes.

Anyway, I like to pretend I’m that girl sometimes. Because usually she’s not necessarily model beautiful or Einstein intelligent, but she’s always striking. There’s always something about her that makes that long-haired mysterious man dive flat on his face in love. And I’m not saying I’m looking for half-way hobos to fall on their knees for me. But I like the idea. The candle-lighting, and the music, and the chevron cardigans and the neon tights. At least every once in a while.

I also realize that when I try to be this person.. it’s the Meg version of her. Which equates to a more spastic, less stylish, more likely to light my shirt on fire than the actual candle version of my romantic poetic life fantasy. Which I’m actually ok with. I’m trying here.

And I think maybe it’s because who doesn’t love being someone else every once and a while? It’s fun. Pretending. Because the reality is, I’m probably never going to be that girl. And it’s ok because I really don’t want that ALL the time. Just sometimes.

Know what I mean? Of course you do.

That’s why we love Halloween.


Or actually (because you know what they say about assuming) that’s why I love Halloween.

And I’m not going to feed you a lot of bull about some abstract reasoning as to why I love it.I love it for the obvious reasons.

Because I love pumpkins.

And I love candy.

And I love drinking too much.

And I love parties.

But mostly, most of all, I love costumes.

Dressing up in costume for a night somehow just makes the evening ten times more fun. I used to spend days.. sometimes weeks.. thinking of the perfect costume. There’s just something about the whole process of it that I just can’t get enough of. But through years and years of conjuring up outfits, I have grown some wisdom in the world of costume 101. And in true top 10 tuesday fashion, I have called it upon myself, as this upcoming weekend is none other than the big 3-1 itself, to help out those in need. So they don’t make the same wardrobe malfunction mistakes I did. And so you can enjoy your Halloween, with the wisdom of someone who’s been there, who knew better and who did it anyway. So without further a-boo…

My top ten scary-good & spooktacular pieces of advice

for how to have the best Halloween costume experience

of your young adult life-

10- Listen to K.I.S.S. & Keep It Simple Stupid.

Hey, nice costume. Oh, that’s what you wear all the time? Awkward..

The simpler the better. If you are going for obscure, Halloween isn’t the time to show off how completely esoteric you can be. Oh.. you don’t know what that word means? Exactly. Same difference. Don’t alienate your audience with your supposed brilliantly unknown costume idea. Unless of course, all your friends are hipsters and think obscurity and irony in costume format are genius and thus, you can dress up as a character from Boardwalk Empire and they will totally understand your brilliance. Otherwise, you are just going to spend half the night explaining who you are and having to play damage control on the constant confused facial expressions you’ll receive after explaining your costume. The best costume shouldn’t take longer to explain than to make.

9 But if I see another FREAKING “shacker” costume…

Come on. What’s the point of dressing up for Halloween if you can’t even be the slightest bit creative? Wearing an over sized polo and mens boxers does not make you funny. It makes you an easy target for creeps. It saves guys the trouble of giving you clothes the next morning. At the very most, you have turned yourself into an extremely economical booty call.

LOL! Pick me! I’m unoriginal AND come with my own morning after clothes! #winning

Yawn.<– You see that? That’s me already bored with how boring your costume is. This also goes for Mario and Luigi, Lady Gaga and any kind of cat creature. You want to be what every one else is being? Fine. But be the effing best at it. I mean, you better be pulling freaking mushrooms out of your pocket and doing flips all while riding in on some house-trained llama painted green to represent Yoshi. Because that’s the only way I’m liking your lame-ass Mario costume.

8- slutty and sexy are not synonyms.

So many girls fall victim to this rookie halloween mistake.

Ladies. Listen to me. Less clothing does not mean you look hotter. In many cases, it reminds people why clothing exists in the first place. If we all looked like Victoria’s Secret models.. we could all join a nudist colony and just walk around naked all day. Unfortunately, you’re not Gisele Bundchen.( I know… I’m sorry too) So you already shouldn’t be walking around in the nude as it is. But then you squeeze your bodies into horrible fabrics like latex and spandex and polyester cotton and THEN because that’s not enough.. you add alcohol into that mix and start to think.. Man I make a great slutty nurse. Fishnet stalkings and a skirt that covers the top half of my ass? Sure! Why the hell not? Well, I will tell you why. Because the rest of us are left gagging on our vodka diet cokes praying that you never ever bend over.

oh no no no.

I’m not saying wear a full body suit. But you can still be “sexy” without being slutty. Wear something that fits you. Leave a little to the imagination. Do you think Gisele would be caught dead dressed as a swedish “beer maiden?” Fuck no. She’s a class act. Still not sure? Put the get up on. Snap a shot. Upload it here. Wait for a response. (sometimes the most honest advice comes from complete strangers.)

7- no one wants to dance with someone wearing a tutu. Or a box.

Considering I have worn both.. I would know. No guy wants to get down with a blob of taffetta fabric in his crotch. That stuff is scratchy, itchy and generally unconducive to all rhythmic movement on or around the dance floor. It’s like a giant colorful chastity belt. Do I even have to explain the box? Good idea on paper. In hindsight.. not practical. But hey, if you don’t want to dance by all means go crazy. Completely outfit yourself in a large electrified forcefield for all I care. God knows it will keep away the randos.

6- walk a mile in new shoes.. Another night.

Scenario: You got some killer new heels. Extra points if you’re going as a zombie for the night. They will go PERFECTLY with what you are wearing. You want to give those bad boys a test drive. Enough alcohol and bam, your feet will be so numb who cares, right? WRONG.

Because what is the calling card of every stupid drunk girl?

” uhhhh! My feet hurt guyyyyssss! I want to go home. I can’t walk anymoreee. Will someone carrryy meeee? Pleaseee? owwwww. I want to goo homeee.”

And you are thinking, ugh someone shut that zombie bitch up! Exactly. Don’t be her. Halloween is a legitimate marathon. You never stay in one place. It involves walking. Sometimes hiking if you are really crazy. And those shoes are going to give you blisters straight from hell. And you will probably lose them if you take them off.

But hey. Many of you aren’t going to listen to me. I’m right. I am absolutely right. But I’m going to go ahead and say I told you so now. Because dude you’re drunk and dressed as a zombie. You have fake blood coming out of your left ear. You eat people. No one cares about your freaking shoes. Trust me on this.

5- throw a costume goal in the figurative halloween pond. And stop fishing for compliments outside of it.

So you decided to dress as a vampire. Not a cute Cullen vampire either. A legit Count Dracula, fangs, blood, cape etc etc vampire. You’re scary as shit. So, don’t decide half-way through the night you want to be cute. You’re not cute. You are a vampire. Deal with it.

Before you make your costume, decide the adjective you want people to think when they see your costume. Cute? Then dress as a care-bear. Sexy? Be Katy Perry. Controversial? Go as Casey Anthony. Scary? Be an effing vampire. Get the idea?

But stick. to. it. Don’t become self-conscious about it half-way through. Don’t ask your friends a zillion times if you look good. Don’t question your choice. Own that costume. Because it’s horribly annoying to be the friend to the friend who all of a sudden thinks that her costume is too slutty, or too modest or whatever. It’s too late for that. If you’re a vampire, be a vampire. This isn’t hard.

4- candy and vodka are synonyms. Both will make you sick.

When we were little, we’d all go trick-or-treating and come home and barter candy with our siblings and friends and then eat our kiddie body weight in high fructose corn-syrup. And then cry. And sometimes barf. Because we ate too much. And our stomachs feel like World War 3.

And now that we’re older and wiser, we’ve obviously never learned this lesson as we now sub hard alcohol for butterfinger balls (which hello, I would so be down for like 500 of those at this moment) which results in much of the same results. Crying and then barfing.

Have we learned nothing children? Apparently not. Hopefully no one is going as a toilet this Halloween. People might get confused…

3- props are your friend! … A friend you will lose at the end of the night.

Props are so GREAT. They seriously can make a costume. Like I remember one time I was a kissing booth and I brought around a lipstick tube so people could give me a kiss and it was so fun!! …And I have no idea where that lipstick is now. Or one time I was Blues Clues & I had a handy dandy notebook! And I wish I had the clues in it to find it again… And another time I was MTV Cribs. And my crib went missing somewhere around 1AM. Do you see my pattern here? If you’re dressing as Kate Middleton, don’t wear your grandmothers jewelry. You’re going to lose everything, (dignity included) on Halloween.. don’t make it worse by losing something you actually care about. (oh! a double entendre! take that as you may..)

goodbye box.

2- strobe lights lie. (so does facepaint)

Drunk goggles on Halloween are like a sick joke made by the Costume gods themselves. Because here you are thinking you are bringing home one of the Disney Princesses, and you are pumped! Because hello! A Disney Princess is like major bro-points. Fast forward 7 hours and that girl must have eaten some kind of cursed apple because that is a straight up wickedy witch in your bed. Or a cute lumberjack who now looks closer to Elmer Fudd. Whatever. The point is, that on a normal night you have to watch out for the effects of alcohol impairing. But add some crazy makeup, a wig or a cowboy hat and you might be thinking you struck gold when all you really should be doing is striking pavement. With your feet. As you run in the opposite direction… Good luck!

And the number one piece of advice I can give you for a Halloween costume-

1- when all else fails.. do it for the story.

So your costume sucks. Oh well. Somewhere in this night lies a story that will outdo every one else’s by a mile. You might have to work for it. You might have to sacrifice some of your pride. You might have to lose your wallet, your phone, your keys, your pants. But tomorrow, you’re going to wake up with a story that you will tell your children’s children. You might even wake up with a legend on your hands. You never know. It’s Halloween. Anything can happen when you’re somebody else for a night.

So there you have it.

My ten tips to making your costume and halloween experience a booo-tiful affair. Now go have a killer weekend you crazy ghouls and boys.

Trick, treats and blackout tweets-



I’ve become really skilled at being perfectly honest while  at the same time, not telling the truth at all.

It’s probably the most frustrating thing about writing this blog. Saying how I feel without saying how I feel. Being vague while being specific. Coming up with some overall theme, an idea, A METAPHOR, that shapes a situation and explains what I am going through.. without ever actually saying any little actual detail of it. But at the same time, still trying to give my words some depth, trying to harness on to some brevity, so that the meaning behind everything I write, can potentially get more symbolic mileage than if I were to just say exactly what I want to say. Does that make sense?

For example:

maybe someone said something to me that made me feel like they were selling themselves short…. Settling.

I could say…

so and so needs to get their shit together.

Man up.

Get a little ballsy.

Start grabbing life by the horns.

Freakin’ grow a pair!

(ok sorry.. enough male anatomy idioms)

But then if I were to do this, I would be gossiping and you would all think I was totally rude and my point would be lost in translation through the specific details of the situation. However, by being vague.. by using the main idea behind the conversation I might have had (In this particular instance.. to not settle), you all get to benefit from my words, instead of just merely reading about my frustrations.

But that doesn’t mean my frustration subsides. Sometimes, writing is like having a surface level conversation with someone you used to be really close with. You know the kind. The Hey-hows-life-whats-new-glad-youre-doing-well-see-ya-later type of unsatisfactory interaction that leaves you a little wistful and nostalgic for a time when you used to really be able to really  share things with that person. And you smile and walk away feeling content you got to see them. But then that contentment is quickly replaced by the pained realization that a part of you was holding your breath, just waiting for the previous relationship to relapse back into its familiar groove,  and finally the hard-hitting knowledge that the reality is… the superficial meaningless small talk is all you two really share now.

And how is that like writing? Because while I’m writing about how I feel, it’s just the surface of it. And because of that..It’s occasionally incredibly unsatisfying. I don’t get the complete response that sometimes I so desperately desire. Sometimes, I just need to get it all out. And when I’m done, I know it’s perfect. Because it’s how I feel and it’s all out in front of me and who cares what anyone else thinks. It’s my words. It’s my truth. And that’s all that matters.

But other times, I write for a specific person. I write with the hope that they not only read my words but take them to heart. That my words change them. That they realize.. you know what? Maybe she’s right. And it doesn’t matter how flawless and perfectly scripted of an essay I create when I write for someone in particular. When I don’t know their reaction, or if they read it at all, it’s like an itch that never gets fully scratched.

Have you ever written a letter to someone? One of those exercises where you are supposed to get all your thoughts on paper, get it all out, but then never actually send it to that person? And yeah, you do feel a little better when you are all done. It really was a little bit therapeutic and stress relieving, but I bet you 10,000 yoga mats you’d be lying if you didn’t agree with me when I say doesn’t a piece of you always wonder how the receiver of said letter would react upon reading it? What they would say? I mean yeah, you don’t actually want to send that letter. It’s too personal. It’s too raw. It’s too honest. And it’s too hard to let anyone get that close to you with no immediate promise that there won’t be impending rejection involved after they digest your words. But at the same time.. there’s always that hanging what if.

and THAT is the itch that never gets properly scratched that I am trying so hard to convey.

Mostly I say all of this, not because I have any intention of changing my writing style but because I want YOU to understand that there is always more to every story. The truth is never black and white. The truth is multi-faceted. And sometimes, the only way to be completely honest is by not saying the truth at all. Which is why saying how I feel without saying how I feel is a challenge that I actually immensely enjoy.

But for once, I’m not going to try to level with an anonymous, faceless crowd to help them find their own truth out of metaphorical lessons I craft up.

I’m just going to be honest. Really honest. So here’s a letter. A letter I’ll actually send. The truth:

I don’t care anymore if you read this. I write for you all the time. But the sad truth for me is, is that you’re that person. That one-dimensional surface level one-word conversation person. You know, the weather and hows life and see ya around. That person I used to know. And I’ll never know your reaction and finally, finally that’s ok with me. I’m finally ok with the itch. I don’t need the scratch. Because mostly…I just don’t care anymore. 

And that’s the truth.


How to laugh in the face of danger: A Simba Tutorial

Well… I did it. 

After 2 months of dragging my feet and hating my life (on occasion), I pulled the plug. I kicked the bucket. I cashed in my chips. I bit the dust.  Shall I continue with my fun death euphemism game or should I “let the cat out of the bag” and tell you what I did?

I. quit. my. job.

I know, I know. Shocking.


I kept saying I was going to.. but then I’d go in and have a good day and I couldn’t do it anymore. And I would have another lousy day. And then I’d have a really shitty day and I would say “this is it! I’m doing it!” And go in and finally.. but then I couldn’t again. And so on and so forth until this point. But not today. Nope. Today, I am many things. I am unemployed. I am poor. I am near broke. But mostly.. I am a fearless, bold, steadfast warrior woman of action (much like Simba… when he finally decides to be king). I am someone who will no longer stand for being treated the way I have been treated. I am someone who will not crumble in the face of an employee discount. I am another company’s dream girl! Whoo! Pumped!

.. but also, yes, now I am unemployed. 

could not have said it better myself. thank you hellogiggles

But fear not! Because like all future business, society, and Lion King leaders of the world, I have a plan. After monopolizing nannying and babysitting websites for the last two weeks, I have come to the conclusion.. that though it’s not exactly ideal.. I make an excellent (and pretty good-looking I might add) stand-in mother. And with this in mind, I have lined up several interviews for “PART-TWO” of Meg’s “IN-THE-MEAN-TIME” life before my someday chosen profession of  “A-REAL-JOB“. My new bosses??  sticky, smelly, loud 2 year-olds and their equally sticky, smelly, loud (just kidding.. hopefully) mothers. And I will LOVE it. Because really people, at this point, what other choice do I have?

Truthfully, if we may fast forward a few years, I am not sure the mommy route is the path for me. I am entirely too immature and carefree to handle that much responsibility without getting paid. However, add in an hourly rate and I. am. your. GIRL.  Seriously, I’m an awesome nanny. I typically allow 20 minutes past bedtime. I rock at wii.. anything. I love all things Disney and I believe Justin Bieber should be sang into any and every hairbrush within a 20 foot radius. I also love chocolate and view it as a major food group. AND I make a killer box mac and cheese. I mean what’s not to love??  I’m freakin’ Mary Poppins of the 21st century. I’m Maria Rainer without any music. I’m like dog whisperer with 4 year olds (ok.. this is a stretch, that guy works miracles.) Refocusing… I’m great. But what am I trying to convince you guys for? Like you care. (…And if I hear one more dead cat joke, well. You don’t want to find out.)

My point is… I’m moving forward. I don’t really know where.. I guess the vast unknown of the nannying world ..but at least I’m not sitting in a stagnant pool of retail anymore. And it feels right. No, it feels GREAT! (not quite tony the tiger great but definitely a step up from the great depression) …I’m buying champagne. And I’m poppin that shit like I’m self-employed and selling rap cds and smiling with grillz on my teeth (which for the record, I’m so kidding. Grillz are like a total dealbreaker)

So the fact that I don’t know what I am doing with my life again has become once again painfully obvious. So what. So I keep forgetting that I’m 22 and I don’t have to know yet. And that I am paving the way  for the ambitious and goal-oriented dreamers who have no idea what they want to do with their future yet either. And I refuse to let myself be unhappy in menial work anymore. And that I am not a lawyer, or a doctor or an accountant. AND THATS OK.

Because the world needs gypsies like me. And because right now I might not look like much, but someday I’m going to be king.. of something. Like Simba, but human version. And until then, I will be a nanny. Or a hostess. Or a bartender. Or a delivery pizza girl. Because I am a gypsy. And that is what gypsies do.

We survive.

🙂 I can breathe again!


The one where the cat dies and I am forced to watch


As is becoming customary in the Ruggieri-Hinshaw household, Wednesday nights have increasingly consisted of saying we will do an ambitious list of activities that typically end up on the back-burner to watch Grey’s Anatomy and compare our lives to doctors who don’t really have lives and furthermore, really don’t actually exist. I’ll usually bake something in an effort to ease my unhealthy chocolate addiction and Dylan will buy a sweater online that she’ll probably return in about a week. Both of us will speak about the weekend in growing anticipation, we’ll complain about a laundry list of miscellaneous topics that are currently pissing us off and eventually, one of us will pull the metaphorical day-ending trigger and hand the remote to the other declaring their need to go to bed.

And meanwhile.. back in Lawrence.. it’s dollar night.

And I’m sure you’re thinking the same thing I would probably think after reading that :

Man Meg, your life is boring/ uneventful/sucks/etc.

And to that I say.. you are so very very wrong.

Well, yes, maybe it does occasionally suck. But sometimes sucking and eventful and maybe not exciting but definitely interesting go hand in hand in hand.

And it is my personal belief that there are certain people in the world, that for whatever reason, for no reason whatsoever, are forced to endure a constant wrath of awkward, random (and occasionally unfortunate) circumstances that effect them more on on a daily basis than your average human being. For some reason, shit just happens to these people in more frequency. Not necessarily terrible life-altering situations, but still, situations that make those around them laugh at their constant demise. It keeps these individuals on their toes. It forces them to create humor about their bizarre dilemmas (or else they will cry) and most importantly, it helps them stay always, endlessly and eternally humble.

And in case you haven’t guessed it yet, this belief comes from personal experience. As I am most definitely, absolutely without a doubt one of these “lucky” individuals.

If I had a two dollars and 27 cents for every time I was in a situation that I kept having to tell myself, you’ll laugh about this someday.. you’ll laugh about this someday.. I would have probably near three thousand dollars and 52 cents. I’m not doing exact math here so that’s a ball-park estimate but let’s just say my entire life has been nothing short of one catastrophic disaster moment after another. I suppose ditching the life mantra, “What the hell! Let’s do it.” would be helpful to my cause. But I do love a good story. Even if it’s at my own expense.

And with that introduction into my life, I will share a story from a pretty average Monday in the life of Meg.

Here is my story: watch?v=1OlCVNn9ZeY

The One where The Family Cat dies

and I am forced to watch it’s sad demise-

Monday started out, as most Mondays do, with the desire to rewind back several hours to Sunday. This particular Monday (and ok, this was three days ago) I had accepted the fate of being very nearly starvingly broke and thus, in an effort to compete against my deminishing and dying bank account, I took on BOTH a nannying job and my regular shift in the dungeon (fitting room) giving me a grand total of 12 hours of manual labor to look forward to. (I say manual very loosely. I fold clothes. I don’t operate heavy machinery and it’s not like I was weeding the garden and cutting down trees at this family’s house… but, for the sake of the story, just go with it)

Anyway, I got to this family’s house ready to do battle play house with any little brats precious beautiful cherub children that I was to spend the next 8 hours with. The dad left me some cash. Told me there was a couple animals but they would come and go as they pleased and to make myself at home. Which I did, as I laid eyes on their beautiful leather couch. Ohhh yea. That couch and me? We got Thisclose. So, I spent most of the morning avoiding getting hit in the head with the wii controller and asking the kids if maybe going outside would be kind of fun? (note: totally vetoed on this. Which I was fine with, it’s Monday and physical activity seemed daunting. Furthermore, leaving my spot on the couch was unheard of. At least I tried. Childhood obesity? Hey, not my kids. I’m completely cool with videogames for 8 hours. Besides, I get like super hyped when they beat a boss. Silent fist pump behind their heads)

Finally, they evacuate the living room to play some video game called Animal Jam in their bedrooms. I’m just supposed to be the mediator here. The girl who ensures that when the parents come home, their kids are still relatively unharmed and the house is still standing. I have this gig in. the. bag. I can do this.

Enter cat. Ugly, old mangy creature. Please note, I am not a cat person. Growing up, if my mom wanted my dogs to attack their chew toys she would train them with the word Kitty? and then they would have a tug of war contest with the squeeky toy thinking it was a game. I’m sorry. Maybe that’s inhumane. Maybe it was mean. But cats don’t like me. So, I never thought anything of this. And like I said, I’m not a cat person.

It stalks around the room. Sometimes, stretching. Sometimes shooting looks at me. Then it curls in a ball on the floor. Ok, cat. You stay in your corner, I’ll stay on the couch.. we won’t touch, life will be ok. Don’t come near me. I don’t know the different between purring and growling and if you bite me I will be forced to throw you across the room like a small rubber football. It seems to understand me. We have an agreement.

But then, the little bastard throws in a curve ball. It starts coughing. And wheezing. And I’m like Oh my god! Gross/Awesome! I have never seen a cat vomit a hairball. I am both fascinated and disgusted. I can’t look away. I am spellbound by this train-wreck of a feline 5 feet in front of me. I want to both pat it on the back and run away in fear. In the end, I decide to stay in my couch. I don’t know what will happen if I move.

Then, something bad happens. I’m not really sure the exact chain of events, as I kind of blacked out both for my own sanity and because I didn’t know I was supposed to remember these exact details at the time. More or less though, it rolls over/lays down/ falls over. Its eyes are open. They are glassy.

I stare in disbelief. Is this the next step in the hairball releasing process? Is it the calm before the storm? I sit completely still. It’s going to attack me. It’s going to jump on me and rip out my hair. It has claws and fangs. I am unarmed! I need a weapon to protect me. This cat is possessed. I am terrified. This is why I am a dog person! Dogs don’t do shit like this. (These are just some of my thoughts)

I very slowly edge toward the coat closet and grab my weapon of choice.. an empty hanger (ok, its all I could think of). Then I sprint back to the couch for safety. This will protect me. The cat has not moved. I reach out cautiously with the hanger and prod it’s little body. Nothing. Then, I start to panic. It’s dead! I killed it by not helping it! I should have patted it! It was choking! What kind of terrible omen is it to watch a cat die and not help? I am a terrible, terrible person/babysitter. What if this is this family’s beloved pet? What have I done? The kids can’t find out. I need to call a vet.

I call the dad. I call the mom. No one answers.Of freaking course. I continue to sit in the living room and hang out with the potentially dead cat. I call a local vet. I explain what happened. I explain what it looks like. I offer to send a picture text message. They tell me that will be unneccesary, if the cat hasn’t breathed for this long, there is nothing else they can do. I feel defeated. I must hide the body.

I find a towel. It has flowers on it. I find this fitting. I put the towel over the cat and tuck in the corners. I think it might have peed. I try not to cry at how my Monday is going. I lift it up in the same fashion Santa does with toys. Except I am carrying a dead cat sack. It is not the same.

I put it in the garage. I say a little prayer that I won’t get bad luck for seven years for not helping it. I ask it not to haunt my dreams. I hum a Bieber song as a send-off. I have done my part. I am not a cat person. There is only so much I can do here.

The parents get home later and I inform them that their cat has died. I fear their reaction. They assure me, “she” had been sick for sometime and it was only a matter of time before she “croaked” (interesting word choice for someone who had to very literally watch their animal croak.) Oh, and THANKS FOR TELLING ME, because I spent the whole day in misery dreading your arrival home and insuring your children that the garage was completely off limits because of the power drills. and the stairs. and the temperature. Yes, thank you for THAT. And for not taking taxes out when you pay me. Bless you.

The end.

So as you can see guys, my life isn’t really boring. Yes, it does sometimes suck but if a Wednesday night means that I get to get through the whole evening without having to watch another animal die of hairball failure, I’ll take a white-bread boring day to that kind of “excitement” anytime. Alas, that is not my life. And it’s only a matter of time before another version of a similarily ridiculous situation surfaces in my life. But I suppose, that’s my cross to bear and your laugh to be had.

And until then, I’m going to bed. Enjoy your dollar night.

ps- to all you shakespearian evil cats out there, next time you want to die some dramatic death in your owner’s living room….Leave me the hell out of it!