Mikania

It seems that everyone knows a crazy old cat lady. For me, there was a scary woman in the north university district (or, as I named it, “the university ghetto”) that always sat with my former landlord/neighbor on his overflowing porch of rusting and rotting junk. They would remain unmoving on the porch, even in the rain or during the winter, where they would watch the news on a blue and white 13″ TV late into the night. Because both she and my landlord pissed me off, and because she seemed to always be lurking outside my living room window, she earned the name “My Landlord’s Ho.”

My Landlord’s Ho was a reputed crazy old cat lady. She never used the term herself, but she had admitted to owning over ten cats (the number might have even been closer to twenty). In a fit of rage over the fact that she hadn’t taken proper care of my landlord’s cat while he was away, my landlord once disclosed to Tyler that his ho kept her cats separated into different rooms- some even in “compartments”. Since this is second-hand knowledge, I’m not sure what he meant by “compartments”, but I always had the image of cats stuffed in those large plastic Tupperware containers. Anyway, My Landlord’s Ho had a couple of living room cats, a couple of bedroom cats and a couple of bathroom cats, and I assume the most annoying were stored away in under-the-bed boxes. She separated her cats because she owned so many that they often fought with one another.

To this day, I conjure up images of what it was like before My Landlord’s Ho started keeping the cats locked up in different rooms and compartments. There must have been one time where there was a huge living room brawl where all ten+ cats screeched and hissed at one another as they flew to the center of the room in a giant orgy of claws and teeth. Fibers of upholstery and fur must have clouded the air in an impenetrable dust, while the weaker cats were tossed against walls and the floors, kicking up the smell of sour cat piss forever soaked into the rotting floor and carpet.

It’s images like this that make me wish there were more crazy old dog ladies in this world. But you never hear stories about them, only stories about people like My Landlord’s Ho. I think this world might be a better place if there were more crazy old dog ladies. I doubt it’s that hard to become a crazy old dog lady; there certainly are dogs smaller than cats these days (my dog being one of them). Besides, at least you can house train dogs and don’t need to live in a house full of stench-filled litter boxes. All you need to do is fence in your yard and install a doggy door and you’re good to go. Of course, there are minor setbacks- like having dogs that dig and burglars that can squeeze through a dog door. But I’m being hypothetical here. Even with the consideration of what troubles you’d have when owning over ten dogs, at least you won’t have furniture and door jambs that have been shredded to bits.

When I grow up, maybe I’ll do a great service for this country and become a crazy old dog lady. I’ll own a house and surround my decent-sized yard with a six foot fence. Then I’ll spend my solitary days relaxing on my porch in a rocking chair and idly throwing a dirt and saliva covered ball to one end of my property. The thought of sitting in the sun with a drinking glass full of vodka and watching ten frantic dogs run over each other in pursuit of a ball is rather appealing.

Replace the dogs with children and you have the typical backwoods Mormon family I grew up near. Maybe that’s why the idea is so appealing- it’s like the frantic sibling-filled days I envied my Mormon schoolmates for. Of course, I have no intention giving birth to that many kids, so dogs seem like a fitting substitute. And on the rare days that I feel my life is meaningless and I’m crazy for owning so many dogs, I can just dress them up in some random doggie outfits and pretend that I’m a Mormon with a house full of children.

Although I think it’s a good thing to observe the accomplishments of Mr. MLK the Junior, all I did this weekend was stay inside and watch random anime that Tyler scavenged with our Ethernet access. Unless you consider watching cartoons made by another culture a worthy way of observing the holiday, it seems rather pointless for me to have had the day off.

Not that I’m complaining about my freebie day- I love having a day off from both classes and work. However, I’m still perplexed about the purpose of having classes cancelled when at least 95% of the UW students spent the holiday skiing or doing other selfish and menial things without a thought to the meaning this day is supposed to have. I certainly didn’t spend a second thinking about Martin Luther King Jr. or racial equality today. It wasn’t until I started to write about something else that this idea popped into my head, and even these words were written with less than an hour to spare before the clock struck midnight.

Having this day to serve as a reminder is one thing, but having the day off for observance is yet another. To be blunt, MLK Jr. Day has no meaning or importance to us white folk- the people who need to understand the meaning of this holiday most. It’s like Christmas without the presents; we get the day off for our own selfish desires to be fulfilled.

My newest obsession is “One Piece”. If you don’t like cartoons, then you won’t be able to understand. I, however, have always had a soft spot in my heart for cartoons (and pirates!). It’s a double whammy on my brain- not only do I get a healthy dose of colorful art, but I also get imaginative story lines that movies tend to shy away from due limitations of the human body (such as our natural inability to stretch limbs to insane distances). And with over 100 episodes (all about pirates!), it gives me a good reason to procrastinate. Oh, and did I mention pirates?

Although “One Piece” is not released in the US, you can download fansubs from here. Since I’m kind of lazy right now and don’t feel like writing a review, visit this site to learn more about the series.

My life isn’t a particularly interesting one. I go to school in the morning, work at a Jewish Community center for a couple of hours afterwards, catch the bus home and then lay around and do nothing during the time that I should be doing homework. Sometimes my dog acts like she had a whiff of catnip so I sit on the floor and play with her. But most of the time, I don�t go anywhere or experience anything worthy of being in a movie.

Despite what I feel to be a typical life, I find inspiring moments that I want to write about every day. Most days there’s at least one image in my mind that I replay over and over again, wishing nothing more than to write about. On particularly inspiring days- days that I woke up happy, refreshed and stress-free- I have many images in my head that I want to write.

Lately, those images have stayed in my head, unable to flow through my blood, through my fingers and into words. This makes me more unhappy than I’ve been recently. I have homework I don’t like (German always does that to me), a professor that makes people in my class cry, and the fall weather has depressed me ever since my mother died three years ago. But worst of all, I lack the confidence to do what I love best. I lack the confidence to write.

Perhaps it has something to do with the creative writing class I’m in. Perhaps it has something to do with depression. Perhaps it’s because I’m too sensitive to my style and story ideas, realizing that I’m nothing compared to the masters of fiction. Perhaps it’s a million different reasons all rolled together with seaweed and rice. I really don’t know what my problem is, but it’s frustrating.

I told myself that I would write something today. It didn’t matter what it was, but it had to be something. And here it is. My essay on why I can’t write. It’s a topic that many people talk about, especially in blogs. It’s also a topic that has been examined too many times. But after having written this, I can see why. It gets one to write and it gets them to think about why they haven’t been able to write. My next step is to write something more creative than an essay. After that, I want to write something every day. This is a constant struggle with me, which is why I started this blog. At first it worked, but that’s because I had extra time on my hands. Given my habit of procrastination and my current state of homework, this won’t be easy.

I wrote the following in two minutes at a writing seminar a couple of weeks ago. I made no edits or changes whatsoever. I had originally signed up for the seminar because I believed it to be about something else than it was about. Granted, it was titled �Writing the More-Than-Human: Fact, Perception, and the Natural World�, but the blurb also mentioned Nabokov. I love Nabokov and had no idea that the focus of the workshop was nature writing. I also had no idea that the leader of the workshop, Robert Michael Pyle, was what I now understand to be a renowned nature writer. Fortunately, the seminar wasn�t so bad. There was even a quirky old woman who wore a wide-brimmed hat that enveloped her entire upper body; she really like squirrels and wanted to write about them. I also learned from a perspective outside of what I normally wallow in, so I guess it was well spent money.

Thick clouds hung low in a cottony blanket the enveloped the earth. Pushing past mossy gnarled trees and over grass, nettles, and clover, the wind wrapped a chill grip around me. It wove through the fabric of my woolen sweater, teasing and taunting.

In my life (my academic life, that is), I am currently surrounded by überfeminists. I have never had much experience with this odd brand of personage until this quarter, so I haven�t decided until recently that I don�t like them.

Feminists, rest assured. I like you and am on your side. However, there is a very bold line in Mindy’s Mental Vocabulary between feminism and überfeminism. Those who cross that line and enter überfeminism become annoying bitches who hate men and salivate over any minuscule reason to express their hate. What’s worse is that their hatred for men isn’t the most annoying thing about them. Even more annoying, is how they give a bad name to feminism by being short-sided, disagreeable, and refuse to do a damned thing to find a solution for the problem they spend all day bitching about. Maybe if they’d get off their ass once in awhile and stop obsessing over the glories of the vagina they could find common ground with their so-called “sisters”. But of course, that would never happen. No, never. Instead, überfeminists would rather feed their blistering hatred towards men and over-look the fact that they are no better than the very men they hate.

Since classes began, I’ve pondered the many possible reasons why these women might hate men. Sadly, I have pondered in vain. Sure, some men are a smarmy lot. I would know: my ass is grabbed regularly, I often have creepy older guys with no teeth call me “Kitty Cat”, and I have been stalked by a man driving a Salvation Army truck through downtown Seattle. Yet, despite the numerous negative man-related experiences I’ve had- and despite the fact that my father is an asshole- I love men. When I think back of my college days, the greatest moments of my life will revolve around the male friends I have. When I think of the most inspiring teachers/instructors I’ve had, only one has been a woman, the rest men. And there’s also the boyfriends of my life. Only one was a horrible mistake that lasted no longer than a month and gave me some good stories to tell. The rest I generally parted with on a good note- or at the very least we had a lot of fun before parting. And lastly, but most importantly, there’s Tyler. Anyone who can take my mental instabilities and insanity in stride for over a year (much less three years) makes men look like gods.

Because I’m pissed at the überfeminists I’ve had to interact with lately, I officially declare it “Men Appreciation Week” here at Mikania. Enjoy.

I love this laundromat! If my washer or dryer ever dies, I know where I’m going.

Yes, I have been silent. I have this peculiar thing known as “homework” that I found to be consuming all of my time this week. I also have another peculiar thing known as “procrastination”, or “Family Guy-itis”, that gets in the way of said “homework”.

Anyway, I know that I promised Rabbi J stories, but I somehow doubt those of you who don’t know me care one way or the other. For those of you who do know me, you’ve probably heard them all before.

I will now leave you with an untitled and very shitty poem. I wrote it on a postcard for a friend while lounging in bed and feeling very ill this morning. Don’t expect it to be funny unless you actually know the bird Ema and the cat Milo.

There once was a bird named Ema
who was fond of pecking eye glasses.
This often caused much drama
as well as some painful gnashes

Her rival was named Milo
and he was a temperamental cat
who belonged in a grotto
and deserved to be spat at!

Due to the looming German exam that I have yet to study for, the Rabbi J series of stories I said I was going to start have been postponed until tomorrow. By noon tomorrow, I will hopefully have survived the hellish fires of the German language and will find myself contentedly sitting in my Creative Writing class while scribbling an outline and notes for my next installment. Will it be about the Playboy magazine or the Diet Coke that exploded in the freezer? Stay tunned to find out as I’m not quite sure yet.

In the interim, check out this site. Her illustrations are incredible and you should buy Christmas cards from her. What? Not Christian? So, buy the cards and send them to people anyway. You’ll feel warm and toasty inside because you just supported a freelance artist who kicks ass. And then you’ll feel guilty because you feel warm and toasty inside and it’s not even the official season for America’s favorite capitalistic holiday. It’s okay, I know how you feel- just read “SantaLand Diaries” from David Sedaris in Holidays on Ice and you’ll feel better.

It’s that time of year again- the time of year when Rabbi J storms in unexpectedly, making demands at every step. For Jews, Sukkot is when they build a frail structure with a vegetative roof and eat (or even sleep) inside said structure for eight days to celebrate the harvest and the fact that good ol’ G-d is more meaningful than a fancy house. For me, Sukkot is when Rabbi J terrorizes the staff and I have to drop all my tasks to wait on his every need. My tasks may include freezing a Diet Coke so that it’s just the right temperature or helping him create “shaky things” (lulav) out of willow, myrtle and palm while listening to his lectures about the importance of that $100 deformed lemon called an etrog.

In honor of my anticipated fourth survival of Sukkot and the infuriating yet loveable Rabbi J, I am going to post as many stories as possible about him during the holiday. I will probably run out of stories before the end of Sukkot. Or perhaps I’ll get bored of writing about Rabbi J and decide watching episode after episode of Family Guy is more interesting. But hopefully, by the end of the week you will understand what the hell I’m talking about and why this man manages to spurn a burning hatred full of love inside everyone he encounters.