Lesson Learned: Don't Spank Strangers

{From Bekah}

Anorexic, I ain't. That being said, starvation has a way of seducing women who are staring down the long aisle they will walk as a bride.

Five-ish years ago, my now husband, Mr. Big Moose, asked me if I would grow old with him. I said yes. In hindsight, I should've flatly refused, considering that he chose to propose to me AFTER AN EPISODE OF BATTLESTAR GALLACTICA! (You know the one where you find out Sharon is a Cylon, and it's all crazy, because she's trying to assassinate the Admiral... You know what? I bet you don't care. Just like I didn't.)

ANYWAY, I did say yes, and that meant I needed to get my ass into a shape that somewhat resembled... well, an ass. And hopefully a nice one at that. I was far from achieving that goal. At my first dress fitting, I got stuck -- literally -- in a constricting cascade of chiffon. A good four inches separated either sides of a zipper and this bride from her bliss. 

So, the day after the dress debacIe, I enlisted a friend (Stacey "The I'm Already Thin But What the Heck, I'm Up For Helping Out My Pudgy Pal" Becker), joined the local Y, and quickly realized just how fat the learning curve was going to be for this curvy then-bride-to-be. 

Here are some of the lessons I learned along the way: 

1. Do not spank fellow exercisers.

I was in the locker room, changing out of a just-from-the-office ensemble that included an over-sized belt. As I went to unfasten the belt, the leather strap slipped from my hand.

Smack!

When the belt fell from my fingertips, it swung and slapped some poor teenager on her posterior.

"Omigod! I am so sorry. I didn't mean to spank you. Omigod! I am so sorry I just said spanked. Omigod! I'm sorry, OK? I'm just sorry."






2. Don't get tripped up by the hotties.

As I was limping to the water fountain, I noticed a man on a treadmill. He was running, and he looked dang good doing it. While eyeballing him, I fell flat on my face.

`He lurched to a stop - not out of concern for me, though. I had tripped over the cord plugging in his treadmill. #Faceplant/Facepalm






3. When in doubt, order dessert.

Most days, Stacey and I rocked it by eating right and exercising. But on other days, after a vigorous round of exercise, we looked at each other and said two magic words: "Olive Garden."

At least once a week, we ordered the soup, salad and breadstick combo. Not that bad, right? Well, sometimes that meant three breadsticks apiece, all dipped in alfredo sauce. And sometimes it meant ordering something chocolatey and gooey.


Our reasoning: If you're trying to get thin enough that you could conceivably star in adult films, then you deserve a little food porn for yourself every now and then. 





4. Avoid shirtless men. Especially when they sign your paycheck.

On the night I signed up for the Y, I received the introductory tour.

My guide woman shuffled me from room to room, and when we got to the gym, she used her naughtiest voice to tell me that I might like this room, since there were shirtless men running around.

I peeked in, expecting eye candy. Instead, I saw my boss sans shirt. 

Let's just say, that experience met the very definition of Not Suitable For Work (NSFW).

5. Listen to Nike and just do it.

I encountered plenty of setbacks in my weeks at the gym. My first time swimming in the pool, I accidentally crossed into an older woman's lane and got the lecture of my life. A pregnant woman pedaled faster than me in my biking class. For three whole days, I could not walk up a flight of stairs.

But I fit into my dress. And if I do say so myself, I looked pretty damn good. So guess, what? If you need to make a New Year's resolution to lose some weight, do it. Worst case scenario is that you have a fun story to tell over dinner at the Olive Garden. 

Shave Traditionally, You Should

{From Chris}

All right, gents (and all you lovely ladies who know a gent), let's talk about shaving.

Why?

Well, for obvious reasons.

First, shaving is one of the manliest manly pursuits and thus rises to a status worthy of discussion. Secondly, there's the little number of 100 -- as in days of his life the average man will spend just shaving his face. If you're going to spend that much time doing something, then perhaps you should spare a few seconds to consider whether you are doing it right. And finally, the act of shaving actually involves dragging potentially lethal weapons (just try telling an inmate that a razor blade ain't no thing) across your own face. How is this something to which you have given zero thoughts?

Now that we have the reasoning out of the way, let's travel back in time.

It rubs the shaving cream on its face

Ten-ish years ago, I was like you -- waking up every morning, slapping some Barbasol on my face, then hacking at my skin with whatever Gamer Edition Gillette razor I could find. I, too, was ignorant as to why I was experiencing facial irritation, why I was spending the serious bucks on new cartridges monthly, or why I was considering any shaving method used by anyone other than Bond.

I may not look like Bond, but at least I shave like him!

So, one day I decided to start looking into the history of shaving.  Why?  Because I have the Internet and because Humphrey Bogart never used a disposal razor.

Thus I discovered the world of traditional wet shaving, and the heavens parted, and my eyes were opened.  I ditched the plastic blades of the notorious corner drug store and replaced them with a gleaming new Merkur Progress safety razor.  I replaced the Barbasol with a badger hair brush and some very nice shaving soap.  I popped in a razor blade and had my first shave, and ...

It was awesome.  I had never gotten a shave that close before, and to top it all off, my face didn't feel like I had just slapped the crap out of myself.

Merkur Progress....oh my....

Eventually, I learned about all the customization I could pursue to make the shave just right for me. Turns out there are a variety of razor blades spanning the spectrum from "Am I even doing anything" dull all the way to "OH MY GOD THE BLOOD" sharp.

Once I had learned how not to slowly kill myself by a death of a thousand cuts, I moved on to shaving brushes and soaps.  And while there were some rules about the brushes and the types of soaps/creams to use, it was a wide world of scents and qualities that left me feeling like an Italian barbershop had made love to my face.  (It's a good thing)

Girl, look at those bristles....

So how do you get started?   Well, if you want to walk in my footsteps then then the first thing you need is a safety razor.

Of course, I recommend picking up a vintage one from a nice Etsy store, like mine.  But if you don't like my selection, there are tons of other Etsy sellers and shave sites on the Internet that Google would be happy to help you find.

Some tips: Make sure you're getting a safety razor, and make sure you read about the kind of shave the razor gives before you buy.  While you may think it's very alpha male to get an aggressive shave, there's nothing alpha about cutting yourself to ribbons and shrieking like a kitten when you do it.

Next, you're going to need some blades.  Some places will include a set of blades to get you off the ground. While just about any razor blades will be better than what you're currently shaving with, I recommend you find a place that will sell you a sampler pack.  That way you get get a nice set of blades  and get to experiment with what you like.

Finally, and this is essential, you need the brush and shaving soap.  The brush really needs to be badger hair. Do not go with synthetic unless you absolutely have to.  It doesn't function well, and you will hurt your starting experience.  Now, brushes can range in price from $20 all the way up to however much you want to spend.  I recommend starting out on the lower end side.  Amazon is your friend here.

As for the soap, this is the easy part.  It's really up to you!   Again you can hit up Amazon, or head to one of your local shops.  Lots of places will carry men's shaving soaps, including local soap stores and even some more mall-type shops like Bath and BodyWorks carry men's shaving soaps/creams. I like the C.O. Bigelow brand they carry.  It feels like shaving in the arctic.  Crabtree & Evelyn is a common soap brand that has a line of very nice shaving soaps.  Personally, I usually will use Taylor of Old Bond Street and Truefitt & Hill. But, as you'll learn, one can never have enough shaving options at your disposal.

After you have all that, all you really need to do is lather up and start shaving.  Make sure you shave with the grain of your beard and do not be afraid to re-lather and make another pass.  You can find fantastic videos of instructions up on sites such as YouTube.

Thus I leave you, with you being a little bit more manly. More assistance on that account to follow in future posts.

A Butt Load of Shit and a Cat Scrap Book: The Puuurfect Cat-urday Mystery

{From Bekah}

Awhile back, Mr. Big Moose announced his annoyance regarding my chronic apathy and lethargy. I, in turn, told him to shove it.

Now, nothing about this is unusual. But this particular conversation took an unexpected turn. 

The dialogue started with me bemoaning our rather recent loss of our kitty, Mac. 

Me: I really miss Mac. I'm starting to forget the little things about him, and I hate that. If I forget these things, it's like he's dying all over again.

Chris countered with his usual degree of sympathy.

Chris: Could you be any more pathetic?

I ignored him and continued my train of thought.

Me: I guess it's good that I have so many pictures of Mac. I can always look through them to remember him.

Now, dear reader, I easily have 1,000 pictures of Mac. And I certainly have just as many pictures of our other cat, Booger. I take pictures ALL. THE. TIME., and I apologize exactly not one bit for my obsession of capturing precious moments with my kitties. (FYI: I'm infertile, and my cats fill my baby hole.) (P.S. Stop being a pervert. My baby hole is in my heart. Not my... well, you know, my physical baby hole.) (P.P.S. This got gross. And creepy. And I DO apologize for that.)

Anyway, since the dawn of our marriage, Mr. Big Moose has resented my pristine photography skills. When I shot (with a camera, not a gun) my cats, my husband, my estate sale finds, my restaurant food, my nieces/nephews, my new color of nail polish after my pedicure, etc..., he moaned in exasperation.

Which is exactly the same sound he made when I mentioned my millions of Mac pictures.

Chris: Maybe you could take up cat scrapbooking. I bet you wouldn't complain about being bored then.

Mind you, dear Studier of A Study of Stuff -- he intended to convey sarcasm. Oh, and I wasn't bored when I talked about Mac. I was sad. Weeping stands exactly opposite of doing nothing. I should know. I do it enough. (Cancer, my friends. I have cancer. I can cry as much as I want.) 

So, when he said "cat scrapbooking," I instantly swallowed my snarky retort (and, to be truthful, some of the snot produced by said sobbing), and my eyes glimmered. 

Chris: No. No. No. NO! That was NOT a serious suggestion!

Me: But why couldn't I have just one cat scrapbook? It'd be tasteful.

Chris bought exactly 0 of my blatant lies that day. (Because, seriously, even I will admit that feline picture books aren't exactly the art sought by the upper crusties of our society.) 

Chris: I will NOT have a Booger Book that you show to our guests!

Me: A Booger Book? Do you honestly think I could forget Mac so easily? It was be my CAT Book, and it would include all of our babies --- Boogs, Mac, AND the new kitten we're getting in January.

And thus is began: The most epic battle in the Sandy Household since the 2009 Invasion of the Air Conditioner and the Retreat of The Big Moose to His Icy Bedroom.

Chris argued: You will look like a completely crazy cat lady if you do this...

I countered: What's wrong with that?

Chris tried: I won't allow it.

I smacked him, and then said: You won't let your WIFE, who has CANCER, have ONE hobby?

With that final blast, I won the argument. 

Sorta.

I guess.

Because, you see, even though Chris resigned himself to the fate of having a cat scrapbook (or scratchbook, as he refers to it) in the house, I never actually bought one. I kept planning to, but I never actually got it done.

AND THEN THE MOST MAGICAL THING IN ALL THE WORLD'S HISTORY OCCURRED: 

Upon arriving home from a week of Christmas celebrations with my family, a plain cardboard box awaited me. Only my name and address graced the container's cover, along with a lone postmark from a town called Newton.

No return address. No card. No clue at all as to the Santa behind my unopened gift.

I swear that when I finally unearthed the treasure that the heavens parted and the angels hopped down alongside me and we all started dancing the Macerana. I'm telling ya, it felt that glorious. For inside this mystery box was a...

CAT SCRAPBOOK!

No, for realz. Someone just sent me a cat scrapbook. And by someone, I mean, I have absolutely 0 clue who gifted it to me. This Santa really is secret, and I don't know why this who did what they did and how. But I'm thrilled. 

Here's my baby: 

 

 And here are some of the rad stickers I'll get to use: 

All in all, I'm pretty darn jazzed.

So, thanks a whole heap, Secret Santa-Claws! You've given me something meow-y fun to do in my down time, and you've given me the purrrfect Cat-urday sleuthing mission: To discover your identity and send you a picture of my cats!

In Other Mail News: 

Awhile back, I posted a blog called "Cancer is Crap," and, well, the title sorta gave it away. I have cancer, and the meds associated with my particular cancer make me shit my shorts, because that's just the sort of luck I have.

After reading the post, one of A Study of Stuff's fans (and a friend, I'd like to think) sent me the following card:

The inside reads: 

"What kind?...

... Seriously, get better soon!"

When it comes to shit, I rarely am amused, but this left me with a big shit-eating grin (pun both intended and disgusting). Thank you, dear card-sender! It's not easy having cancer, but you made it that much more bearable for a day. (And by bearable, obviously, I mean black bear. That's the type of poo to which I most relate in my cancerous state.)

So... that's about it folks. I don't really got much more. So, guess that means I should stop typing now...

Announcing A New Family Addition...

Oh. Em. Gee. I'm tempted to ditch my citizenship. 

Don't get me wrong. Cheeseburgers! Apple Pie! Star Spangled! World Dominance! Obesity! And all that other 'Merica pride stuff!

But, know what other countries have on us?

THE BOXING DAY BUNNY!!!

I'm going to repeat myself, because I feel it's that phenomenal: Other magical places in the world have THE BOXING DAY BUNNY! And I want one.

Apparently, Aussies celebrate this long-eared being, and when I first heard of him, this is what I envisioned: 

Or, maybe this, which is a little less fairy-tale and a little more bunny bad-ass: 

THIS is what my husband, Mr. Big Moose, imagined, and I'm not so thrilled about it: 

Yeah, well, according to The Sidney Morning Herald, the Boxing Day Bunny is a little less Playboy and a lot more like, and I quote, "the guerilla of festive gift-givers, and you never know where and when he'll strike." 

I don't know if this bunny was bred by Che Guevara or is the Easter Bunny's second-cousin-twice-removed, but it's my new favorite obsession.

(Inserting relevant backstory here): Growing up, I didn't believe in Santa Claus. My parents never told me about him. Instead, all of my presents came from my parents. And that was absolutely A-OK by me. But then I got married, and my husband's eyes goggled when he talked about the glorious mystery of the fat man in the suit (although, I argue, my dad was on the heavy side, and he wore nice clothes to work, so I argue kinda the same thing). So, I never had that wizard-behind-the-curtain experience, and I think the Boxing Day Bunny can remedy this tragic situation. 

Apparently, this rabbit comes the day after Christmas and surprises sad little boys and girls and whiny adults who didn't receive what they wanted for the big holiday. But the Boxing Day Bunny isn't just some generous stuffed animal who is all about spending wads of Benjamins. He's more of a bargin-bin dude instead.

Now, to me, somebody only wanting to spend the bare minimum on people during the giving season sounds much more believable than a generous spirit willing to give up an entire night's sleep to give people expensive gifts. Or maybe that's just my family...

Since this blog is supposed to include some vintage and historical charm, I'm going to go ahead and give you a mind-enhancing quickie: 

This day-after-Christmas holiday is celebrated by most countries in the Commonwealth (the traditional English term for a political community founded for the common good, now used to refer to the former members of the British Empire), but it's celebrated in a what-are-we-celebrating-again? sort of amnesic state where nobody really knows (or really cares, for that matter) who, why, when, how, etc. it started. 

Some people think that the Christmas carol "Good King Wencelas" tells the origin of this holiday, when the Duke of Bohemia was struck by a socialist state of mind and delivered some food and wine to some poor starving, freezing dude.

Other people think that Boxing Day started when the Church of England began setting out a box (key word here being "box") and asking parishioners to drop in a coin or two throughout the Advent season. On the day after Christmas, the priests broke open the boxes, handed the money to the poor, thus leading to the name Boxing Day --- maybe. Not sure though. Because...

A fourth official theory exists as to why people round the world celebrate the 26th. Hoity-toity muckety-mucks like the Granthams used the day after Christmas as a time to distribute boxes of gifts to their servants and then "graciously" allowed the help to spend part of that day with their own families. How kind. 

All of these are true. Or none of them. Nobody knows. What historians agree on for sure is that people gave servants presents, but few of us have an Upstairs/Downstairs arrangement (and shame on you if you do!), and they confirm that the church gave the poor charitable donations, but religion is on the decline and the last time I met a generous person was when I looked in the mirror and told myself that what I saw didn't look all that bad. My personal theory is that the holiday started when some bitch like me was all like, "I have a list of people I want to punch in the face. Yeah. I'm going to get on that. And extra kudos to me if I make a holiday of this!" 

Nowadays Boxing Day is known for being a British Empire holiday where a) people go to pubs and watch soccer, b) go fox-hunting, or c) heading out for Boxing Day sales.

No, seriously, Boxing Day is to Britain as Black Friday is to America: mayhem and materialism. And it's been going on for awhile. I actually found this picture from the mid-century from Boxing Day:

Oooops. Totally wrong pic. THIS is the one I meant to post:

For real, people outside America go CRAY-CRAY over Boxing Day sales, and parents/friends/lovedones/family/strangers(scratch that last one) snap up sales and give them as the Boxing Day Bunny. Honestly, given the lethargy, laziness, and greed of Americans, I'm shocked we haven't yet adopted this holiday.

For realz, I NEED the Boxing Day Bunny in my life. This year for Christmas, I got family time and a pedicure. Only one was relaxing. I'll leave you to guess which one.

But if I could only get one thing from the Boxing Day Bunny, it'd be a Boxing Day Kitty...

... which, actually, I'm GOING TO GET, sans Muhammad Ali-vibe.

As some of you know, my husband and I lost our kitty, Mac, in early November. Today, Mr. Big Moose told me that we're going to start the New Year with a new kitten! We're already arguing about names. He wants to name the kitten Mr. Biscuits, and I want to name it Princess Pretty Pants, under the advisement of my niece. (We're taking name suggestions in the comment section, and we'll seriously consider glorious entries.)

So, yeah, the point of this whole long, rambling post is this: The Boxing Day Bunny brought me a coupon for a Boxing Day Kitty, and for this reason, I'm saying this: BRING ON THE BOXING DAY BUNNY TRADITION!!!

That One Time We Considered Stuffing Our Dead Cat Into Bullets or Bears

{From Bekah}

You should feel sorry for me. No, like, straight up pity me at this point. Earlier this month I announced I have cancer. This week, I tell you the story behind that story. Because there is one. And it's sad.

The day my doctors told me I had cancer was ... only days before I turned 30... which was the same week that we had to put down my kitten...

Pop quiz: Which scenario upset me the most?
A) Cancer
B) Turning old
C) Saying goodbye to my kitty

Um, DUH. C, as in C is for Cat.

Don't get me wrong; I'm totally all hatertots about my diagnosis, but I was significantly more overwrought about losing my cat, Mac, than I was being told that there was an actual, scientifically-determined percent chance that I could die.

Now, before this post gets sorta funny (albeit dark), it's going to get sad. Like, I'll-be-blubbering-while-typing sad. But can you handle that, dear reader? Can you hang on? Good. Welp, let's dive in.

Mac Lives, Mac Dies

Yes, you ARE about to look at an effing photo montage of my dead kitty's first day in our home. You're just lucky it's not a slide show played to Sarah McLaughlin's "I Will Remember You..."

Chris and I married on a Friday, and on Saturday, my new hubby surprised me with the best gift ever: a kitten.

Now, keep in mind as you read this that I am infertile. Babies? Not in my future, thanks to the combined efforts of cancer, polycystic-ovarian syndrome, and bad genes. So all my maternal instincts spill over into cat territory, and my lovelies get bow ties, Christmas presents, special holiday kitty dinners, etc.*

We walked into the shelter, and a grizzled fossil of a man with a cane and a limp hobbled up to me and shoved this frowzy (real word: look it up) fur ball into my arms.

"He's not much to look at, what with being the runt of the litter and all, and he's getting bullied something bad," the man sympathetically grumbled. "The others ain't letting him eat, and I just don't think he's gonna make it unless he gets a good home."

Words fail me when trying to explain that moment. It was that monumental to me.**

But Chris managed to say what I was thinking, "Welp, that does it. Wrap him up."

We THOUGHT we had picked out a shy, nerdy cat. Instead, when we let him loose inside the house, he tore through it like freaking Hurricane Sandy (which is HI-larious, because our last name is Sandy.) He was nothing short of a little shit, and we loved him for it. He knocked over water glasses for a fresh drink, bit our toes before scurrying away in his own annoying version of tag, woke us up in the middle of the night to get pet, constantly jumped onto the off-limits banister on the deck to swat at the birds at our feeder, and cuddled like nobody's business. Every morning when I left, I said, "Toodles Mac Poodles," and he meowed in response (no, seriously, he did), and when I opened the door upon my nightly return, he sprinted toward me, ramming his head into my leg to make sure I noticed him.

My drink has been compromised.

I woke up one morning to the sound of my both my boys snoring away. I left them to snooze. After I documented the adorableness, obviously. 

So, when he fell to the floor and yowled in pain last month, every nerve in my body stopped functioning. Or at least, that's how it felt. Chris and I whisked him to the local animal emergency hospital, where we were told that Mac had a congenital heart condition that had resulted in a blood clot and paralyzed his back half. He needed put down. From the minute he fell to the minute I used my hand to close his eyes, only 15 minutes passed. I whispered to his little body, "Toodles Mac Poodles," and bitterly noted that no response came. We'd had him for a splendid four years and four months.

No words adequately convey the true nature of heartbreak, and I can only say that this definitely cracked my shriveled heart in two.

To Bury, Or Not To Bury?

When the vet told us what needed to be done, I sobbed. Uncontrollably. Like my 2-year-old niece when she decides she needs a cookie. Through my snot and saliva, I bawled, "But Mac CAN'T die. YOU don't understand. I HAVE CANCER! AND I JUST TURNED 30! Why is God taking away my cat, too?!?"

I'm totally not joking. I was THAT hysterical. Chris shot me a look that clearly said, "Shut your damn mouth right now before they kick us out," while the vet stifled what I can only imagine was a nervous/horrified giggle.

I asked, "Why is God punishing me?" about 50 times in that small, cramped little room where my dead kitty's body lay, limp and longing for the soul that once occupied it.***

I asked it of Chris. I asked it of the vet. I asked it of the vet's assistant. And I asked it again when the receptionist came in and took our payment (seriously, it takes nerve to CHARGE $200 for KILLING your cat), and she casually asked us: "What would you like to do with your poor kitty's body?"

For 2 Benjamins, I would've liked them to resurrect it, but since that wasn't an option, Chris and I stopped to seriously contemplate how to deal with a dead cat's corpse.

And we came up with some doozies:

1) Shoot us some birds

So, I don't know if I've mentioned this or not, but my husband and I are ex-pat Yankees living in the deep south of Dixie. And where we live, guns are sorta the cat's meow (pun both intended and unfortunate.) And by cat's meow, I mean, they are LITERALLY mandated. (No, really, when we lived in the Atlanta suburb of Kennesaw, the city had a lay mandating that every household was required to own both a handgun and its ammunition. Um, yeah, no. Also, I emphasize "literally" lest you think I am employing hyperbole.)

So, on the way home from the vet's, Chris turns to me and says, "We could always use Holy Smoke."
Me: "No (bleeping) way."
Chris: "Why not?"
Me: "Are you seriously asking me why we can't gather our cat's ashes, mail them to some hicks out in Alabama, let them stuff Mac inside of bullets, and then they ship us live ammunition containing our cat's remains?"
Chris: "I thought I could use the bullets to shoot birds from our deck. Mac would have liked it if we did that in his memory."

For realz, there's a company that gathers your loved one's ashes and turns them into lethal objects. The company, actually called Holy Smoke, advertises it's services by arguing, "Talk about a classy send off -- this is high caliber, literally. You pick the caliber."

Notice how I didn't emphasize the "literally" in that last paragraph? Let me try that word in this sentence: My husband is LITERALLY an idiot, and if you don't believe me, please continue on to the next section.

2) Game of Drones

Chris wondered if we should keep Mac's body and follow in the footsteps of the engineering genius/mad scientist who taxidermied his cat onto a hovercraft and used it as a drone/helicopter.

Don't believe me?

Dear readers, if you have children in the room, remove them. Now.

Because BAM! Here it is. THIS is what Chris wanted to do to my poor Mackles' body.

In Chris's defense, I did think it would be fun to call our cat drone The Mac Attack and use it to scare the shit out of the birds/neighbors/local dogs.

3) Beary Good Business

As if bullets and heli-kitties aren't scary enough, I learned that people LITERALLY (there's that word again!) walk into their local Build-A-Bear store, carrying a container housing the ashes of their loved one, and PAY to have the remains enclosed in a bear.

What. The. Hell?

Chris and I considered this option briefly, but we were worried that Mac's evil-esque influence would compromise any stuffed animal he might inhabit, and if we ever accidentally donated the bear to a thrift shop, it would come alive and eat any child that looked at it sideways.

4) To Catch A Killer

Fortunately for you, I have no accompanying picture for this potential use of Mac's body.

Short version of this section: When I was a kid, my parents bought a gigantic school, had relatives live in it with them, thus causing the community to think we were a polygamous cult. This image only worsened when my aunt decided to tie a dead cat around our dog's neck.

Longer version: So, this dog, Curly, kept killing cats. He couldn't drink enough of their blood. He annihilated any member of the feline species that dared cross his path. Our neighbors started resenting us for allowing this terror to keep chomping down their poor pets. The local vet told my aunt that only one thing could reliably cure Curly of his murderous desires. "Take his next victim," she said, "and tie it around his neck. Leave the dead cat around his neck for 3 days, and after you remove it, he'll never want to even look at a cat again." Um, nope. Didn't work. At all. Curly used that cat as a pillow, as a toy, as his best friend ever. He actually resented us for removing it. Of course, the dead, stinking, bloated cat wasn't separated from Curly until after the local church deacon (the one who had been telling everybody that my family was a cult) came to pay us a visit to see if his rumors were true. Honestly, I don't blame him for thinking we were. If dead cats around dog's neck doesn't scream "cult," then I don't know what does.

5) Home Grown

This, dear readers, is the most pleasant, although least entertaining, of our considered options.

A high school friend lost her pet dog shortly after Chris and I said goodbye to Mac. I sent her a condolence message (because that's what you do when you're Midwestern and nice), and she responded, telling me that her family saved each of their deceased pets' ashes with the intent of spreading the ashes underneath a tree planted in their memory.

Honestly, this sounds nothing less than lovely, and I can imagine no form of rebirth that could gain more approval than that of my favorite artist, Bob Ross.

Conclusion: 

In the end, dear reader, we chose none of these options. No means of disposal was good enough for our dear Mackles. Instead, we told the vet to dispose of Mac with dignity. Because it's what Mac, a very dapper kitty, would've wanted. That, or the whole being-a-bullet-and-shooting-the-birds thing. He would've REALLY liked that.

*Don't you DARE judge me. YOU'RE the one reading the shit that this crazy cat lady is writing.
** Again, I am INFERTILE. This is my only baby experience, okay?
*** I told you shit got dark.

Vintage Wedding In An Antique Shop?!? Yes, Please!!!

Since moving to Atlanta, I've only met a handful of people worthy of my adoration, and my hair stylist is one of them.

I knew I loved Anna the minute she replaced my natural ashy blonde hair with the raddest red-tinged chocolate color. But then she went ahead and revealed to me that she had her engagement pictures taken in my favorite (historical and sublimely beautiful) cemetery, and then I really, really knew that she was friend material.

Anyway... Anna and her fiance-turned-hubby, Stuart, got married last night, and their reception BLEW MY MIND.

Instead of sticking to a more traditional venue, the couple rented out the back room of the Atlanta antique store, Paris On Ponce. We walked and weaved our way through the shop, seeing oddities and quirky tschotckes, as we followed the trail lit by candles. Then, we saw THIS:

That definitely set the tone, alright. This was literally the artwork RIGHT NEXT to the entrance to the Le Maison Roug lounge in the back of the shop. (And yes, I know I just wrote The The Red Lounge Lounge.)

Other stunning visuals of the night included these:

But this wasn't the only gorgeous thing at the wedding. Obviously, Anna looked like a freaking retro GODDESS. Of course, I think that the necklace she's wearing is the best part, but I'm biased, as I found the necklace at an estate sale. Yet another example of how vintage accessories make for the best vintage wedding.

Needless to say, I wish I could go back 4-1/2 years and re-do my wedding. Okay, maybe not really. I had a lovely Midwestern wedding. But it wasn't THIS. This is an example of a wedding done not just right, but HELLA right!

On the subject of cufflinks

Gentlemen, look at yourself.

Ladies, look at your man.

Is there something about his person that missing?  Is there an air of gentlemanliness that seems absent?

That thing is ....

.... a bitching set of cufflinks.  EXHIBIT A!

Exhibit A

Now, as some of you may have heard, I am male.  I know there are rumors to the contrary, but I assure you, I do belong to the tribe of man.  And being part of that tribe (and being weird) means that I have strange manly hobbies.  One of the more gentlemanly hobbies I enjoy is collecting men's cufflinks.

Cufflink Pro-Tip: Do you own cufflinks? No? THEN GET SOME!

It has always been looked down upon for a man to wear too much jewelry.  With the exception of you being a wise guy or a Freemason, there are very few manly accessories available for a man these days. Oh sure, you can wear a tie like the rest of the office drones, but that's not really an expression of you.  And, more importantly, nothing about that will help you be memorable.

Well, my friend, fear not.  Cufflinks are here to help you.  Originally born in the early 1700s, cufflinks originally literally helped hold shirt cuffs together.  They then moved to be more decorative, and now they have evolve to be more about the form than the function

Horse form, not horse function

Now, the original thought was that cufflinks were only for the theatre, the opera, or the symphony.  You know, those moments when you're going to be dressed to the nines.

While it is true that cufflinks will help take a super dressy moment to the next level, there is no reason that you can't add this to other outfits.  I really hate the term 'dressing down,' but it's definitely possible to make cufflinks great for everyday wear. All you need is a nice shirt with French cuffs, and you are ready to roll. Oh, and pants. You MUST also be wearing pants.

Cufflink Pro-Tip:  Are you wearing cufflinks?  If not, wear some. EVERYWHERE!

"But Mr. Big Moose," you say, "how do I get into wearing cufflinks?"

Have no fear, I'm here to break this down for you.  

1. Get some french cuff shirts.  These are shirts that are designed for cufflinks and are available all over the place -- men's clothing stores, online, or get your Macklemore on and hit up a Goodwill.
2. Get some cufflinks.  For serious.   Grab a few pairs that strike your fancy.  I totally recommend you check out the bad boys over here.
3. Put the cufflink through the cuff.  
4. LOOK AWESOME

                Cufflink Pro-Tip: Put the cufflink in the cuff of your shirt.  Nowhere else!

But if not to the Opera, where should I wear these?  Well, let me ask you this, are you wearing slacks and a nice shirt to work?  Boom!  That's a perfect time to try out a new set of cufflinks and set yourself apart from the other guys who couldn't give a damn about their appearance.  In short, tap into your inner Lord Grantham and embrace a piece of style that can be uniquely you.

I really don't know how to wrap this up. Awkward, right?
So, um, bye? I guess.

Bring On The Sweet Talk

ROMANTIC ROUNDUP: Wherein Chris and Bekah share their favorite conversations from the last few weeks

******

Chris: Wait. Are we having a fight, and I don't know about it?
Bekah: What do you think?
Chris: I think you should get back to me about it, and then I'll know how sorry I should be.

******

Bekah: (Walking into the kitchen after sleeping in late) What time is it?
Chris: (Looks at his watch) 9:11
(Small Pause For Effect)
Chris: And you said you'd never forget.

******

Bekah: My feet really hurt, you know, because of my ... oh, what's that disease? My PCOS? No. That's not it. The other one...
Chris: Cancer?
Bekah: No, the other one.
Chris: Your depression?
Bekah: No, the one after that.
Chris: Your anxiety disorder.
Bekah: No! Ha! I remember now. My plantar fasciitis! 
Chris: I forgot you had that one.


******

Bekah: I really miss Mac (our kitten that recently had to be put down). I'm starting to forget things about him. At least I have a lot of pictures of him.
Chris: I'm surprised you haven't started cat scrapbooking.
(Small, pondering pause)
Chris: NO! I will NOT have a Booger Book (Booger is our current cat) that you show to our guests. 
Bekah: (Pouting) But why can't I just have just one scrapbook? A tasteful one. I mean, it'd help me pass the time while I HAVE CANCER!
Chris: I am not amused.

******


Bekah: "It's getting harder to breathe."
Chris: "Maybe (mumbles) should go to the gym." 
Bekah: "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? Did you tell your wife who going through cancer treatments that she would just get over breathing problems by GOING TO THE GYM? What is WRONG with you?!? Why don't you just go ahead and call me fat???"
Chris: Woah. What do you think I said?
Bekah: That I should start going to the gym.
Chris: No, I said that I should start going to the gym. My shirt shrunk. I mean, Jesus, that's harsh even for me.
Bekah: Is it? Is it really? Because the day after we put down our one cat, you threatened to put down the other, just because you thought it was funny, even though I was devastated.
Chris: Wow. I am sort of kind of an ass.
Bekah: Yuuuuup.

******

Bekah: (Regarding shrieking fire alarm) I think something in the oven is burning.
Chris: Stop back-seat cooking, woman!
Bekah: I'm pretty sure something is wrong.
Chris: Yeah... with our smoke detectors.
Bekah: No. I think something is wrong with supper in the oven.
Chris: FINE! I'LL LOOK, BUT I'M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT!
(Pause)
Chris: Shit!
(Pulls this from the bottom of the oven. It's his forgotten breakfast)

******


Bekah: Baby, could I use the computer for a bit?
Chris: But I'm gaming.
Bekah: I just need it for awhile for my school work.
Chris: Fine.
(Stomps out of room. Sound of knives being sharpened.)
Bekah: Subtle, Chris. Reeeeeeeeeeal subtle!
Chris: It wasn't meant to be. 

Cancer is Crap (And This Title Is More Hilarious Than You Know)

So.... um, let's just put it out there. I have cancer.

I want to be clear: I'm not saying that my astrology sign is Cancer. (Somebody once misunderstood my diagnosis and said, "But I thought you were a Scorpio." Not lying...) Nope. I have cancer. And I have the kind that makes me gain 80+ pounds in the course of two years because there is a tumor attached to my fat pump (aka. my thyroid).

What I HAVE

What I AM

VS. 

Now, lest you think the purpose of this post is for whine-baggery, let me just give you a heads up: it ain't. But we'll get to the heartwarming takeaway message a tad later. So, please stick with me on this one. No, really. Hang in there. Because there's some awkward, overtly personal stuff coming your way, but I PROMISE it's worth it. 

For now, let's start with a story:

Once upon a time (last week) my cousin, Rachel, called and said: "I totally thought of you the other day! I was at the cash register, and this little old lady came up to the check out, and while she was standing there, she stopped talking and clearly took a dump in her pants. And when she walked away, her butt was totally lumpy. You know, like there was something in there that shouldn’t be. I think she was wearing an adult diaper, because nothing fell out of her pants as she walked away.”

I wish that I had no idea how I'd gotten to the point in my life where an  incontinent octogenarian reminds people of me. But I knew. Oh, sadly, how I knew.

Alas, dear reader, ‘tis true. I regretfully admit to this crappy habit (pun TOTALLY intended.) I shit my pants. Regularly. And unexpectedly.

DON’T LEAVE THIS BLOG!!!! I KNOW YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT IT!!! Your brain is all like, “Sweet. Baby. Jesus.  I did not sign on for this!  This lady is off her nips.” And I don’t blame you. Because it’s weird. It’s not like this is a point of pride for me. So, PLEASE, don’t abandon me yet.

This whole drama started when I was sitting in my OBGYN's office. I refuse to regale you with the sordid details of that appointment, but let me just say that the next few hours passed in a flurry of sonograms, scans, touchy/feeling awkwardness, blood work and a big diagnosis.

I. Have. Cancer.

I’m sure that there is an actual medical description of what all this thyroid cancer (mixed with a lovely condition known as polycystic ovarian syndrome) entails, but for time’s sake, let me just give you a rundown of the more salient points:

1)      I was going to experience severe depression. A LOT of it.

2)      Piggy-backing on the depression would be extreme anxiety disorder, so I could expect constant paranoia and regular panic attacks. 

3)      I was going to grow a beard. No, seriously, the guy in the sky is cruel enough to make this a common symptom for my situation. Maybe not a Santa Claus beard, but a good, dark 5 o’clock shadow.

4)      I was going to balloon up like a bloated badger left on the highway, because weight gain is just a known aspect of these conditions.

5)      I was going to start shitting my pants.

I know right now is a WTF moment for you, and I sympathize. If it's that uncomfortable reading it, imagine how uncomfortable it is living it. For those wondering what this looks like, I invite you to imagine a fuzzy-jowled, psychopathic, rancid, weepy version of post-gum-chewing Violet Beauregarde of Willy Wonka fame.  Yup. That’s me. Hi!

Sorry about the quality, folks, but it's my first time ever using an editing program to doctor a picture.

A key point: My doctor only informed me of the first four symptoms. She totally omitted the constant crapping part. So, imagine my surprise when I picked up my first batch of meds and noticed an unexpected side effect. In the teeniest scrawl, the pharmacy had kindly warned me that I might experience some “spontaneous defecation.”

First, what the HELL? “Spontaneous defecation?” What does that even mean? Second, why wouldn’t you type that in ALL CAPS?!? It seems sorta important. And finally, for the love of compassion, WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ACTUALLY TELL ME WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN TO MY POOR BODY?

Dear reader, I apologize, but it’s time. You need to prepare yourself. A painfully pathetic pun is about to happen.

Here it is.

BEKAH’S SHIT LIST (of only 2 items):

SHIT LIST LINE ITEM UNO: Wherein a bird provides a lousy perspective on irony

The first time I noticed my foul bowel situation, I was driving to my cousin, Rachel’s, wedding. Yes, that Rachel. The one who at the beginning of this tome equated me to a decrepit, diaper-wearing bag of old bones. My husband, Chris, and I were on the open road when a sharp pang stabbed my side, and I instantly noticed that my seat seemed … soft. Mushy, if I were forced to provide the most accurate description.

“Um, Chris. I think I shit myself." 

“What do you mean you ‘think so?’ Don’t you know?”

“Not for sure.”

(Cue the sound of my sobs.)

Short version: Yes, I had shit my pants. Long version: I found a disgusting gas station and cleaned myself up in a bathroom that lacked both toilet paper AND paper towels, and with no trash can in sight, I had no choice but to wad up the poor, polluted panties and shove them into the world’s most unfortunate jeans’ pocket. I emerged from the restroom, and the man behind the counter saw the bulge in my pants and thought I was shoplifting. I *almost* reached into my pocket, yanked out the unlaundered undies, and threw them at him, all while screaming, “YOU WANT PROOF? YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE PROOF!!” Instead, I assured the man that I would never commit such a crime, and to show him that I was a stand-up citizen, I purchased a pile of candies and sodas, because I'm nice and Midwestern like that.

(Epilogue to Shit List Line Item Uno: Chris and I had eaten all of the same things that day, so he was convinced that I had food poisoning and that he, too, would suffer my filthy fate. For the remaining two hours of the trip, he kept repositioning himself in the passenger seat, saying, “I don’t feel anything squishy, but that doesn’t mean anything. Pull over here. I need to check.” And who says marriage isn’t romantic?)

(Epilogue to the Epilogue: Fate apparently forgot that it had already shit in my eye that day, because as the beautiful bride, the aforementioned Rachel, made her way down the aisle at her stunning outdoor wedding, a bird flew over and left me a globby present. No shit. That bird took a big ol’ dump right on my lap.)

SHIT LIST LINE ITEM DOS: Wherein nice nerds unintentionally lose at the game of life

My husband is the best thing to happen to my world since sliced bread, banana splits, kittens, and the entire Harry Potter series. But I join the ranks of the befuddled when it comes to wondering why he married me. Every day I am convinced that this is the day he’s going to pack up his Dungeons and Dragons cards (footnote: Chris pointed out that there are no cards in D&D, and I told him I couldn’t give two rat’s asses),  and get out with his 20-sided dice while he still can.

Seriously, he is a nerdy saint, and I love him more than that other guy I was engaged to before him. So, for my second Shit List Line Item, I wish to ask the Church to consider my husband for Canonization and that he be declared Saint of The Sexless. Pope Francis has yet to recognize said request, so I turn to the people.

On the date of Feb. 14, 2011, Mr. Christian Sandy heretofore suffered the following martyrdom and performed a miracle of mercy: His wife approached Mr. Sandy with some massage oil to spice up their holy union. After all, it was the Day of (would-be fellow) Saint Valentine. Mr. Sandy recognized his wife’s efforts, and he embraced her.

In response to his advances, Mr. Sandy’s wife promptly proceeded to shit in her lacy lingerie.

Yeah. So, that actually happened. Because of my medicine and the nausea-inducing side effects, I had deprived my husband of … ahem … adult activities for two months. Finally feeling better, I decided that I would make Valentine’s Day super special, and we started what was a promising beginning to a wonderful evening.

Until I ‘spontaneously deficiated’ myself.

(Cue yet another sobbing meltdown.)

I could continue. I wish this two-line-item "Bekah's Shit List" was a comprehensive composition of my life's least pleasant moments. Unfortunately, shitting my pants in public is right up there with “grocery shopping” on my list of things I’ve done lately. (I wish I were joking, but as I was writing this today, I had a violent reaction to the “spontaneous defecation” medicine and had to run to the bathroom, and in the game of not shitting yourself, “Good hustle” counts for exactly nothing, other than another extra load of laundry.)

While I don’t expect that many of you spontaneously shit yourself on a regular basis, I do suspect that at least some of you have been diagnosed with either a thyroid tumor, polycystic ovarian syndrome, or some other unpleasant condition that leaves you heavier, hairier, unhappier, or holding your ass checks together with a concentrated intensity that Richard Simmons would admire. 

To my fellow soldiers of suffering, here’s what I wish I had been told  at the beginning of this shitty debacle:

1)      Tweezers are a girl’s best friend. Have a pair near your couch, in your car, in your purse, and by your bedside. You never know when that beard/mustache hair is going to pop up, and you need to be ready to yank that trespasser from its unrightful place upon your face and fling it into the wind, never to be remembered again. Also, don’t get your chin/neck waxed. All it does is leave a ruby ring under your growing double chin, and instead of looking like you just have A beard, it looks like you have neck rosacea AND a beard.

2)      Never call yourself fat. If forced to describe your physical condition, say you are corpulent. America’s education system has assured us that nobody’s going to know what it means. They are only going to know that it sounds sensual and decadent, much in the same way a strawberry crème puff does. And by all means, eat a damn crème puff now and then. Because let me tell you who are the most interesting, humorous, thoughtful, and just downright lovable people I know – they are the ones who enjoy their effing dessert and don’t ruin the conversation by whining about calories. I’m not advocating that you eat yourself into an obese oblivion, but I am saying that life is meant to be enjoyed, so please embrace substance, not shallowness.  Be a person, not a Paris Hilton. Check out my before and after weight pics. So what? I still look vaguely human in the last one, right?

Me at 140 pounds, when I was running, rocked a single chin, and could fit into a sizes that didn't involve numbers Xs.
P.S. That's my adorable nephew, Cal. 

Me at 230 pounds, rocking a triple chin, a belly big enough to house triplets, and arms the size of tree branches.

3)      Fight back. Depression and Anxiety are evil, stalking parasites that smash and snake their way into every aspect of your life. Get professional help to find the best way to tell those two emotional thugs to bugger off. My psychiatrist has been a great body guard, and I now know that I am a being worth saving from the likes of those two skank wads. You are, too.

4)      Get over yourself. So you’ve shit your pants. This is life with cancer. And if you're not actively dying from that cancer, then you should clap your hands every time you crap, because it means it's another day where you're alive and relatively healthy compared to all those other people who really, really aren't. And besides, who the hell are you to think that you’ve got the market cornered on unpleasant shit? I bet plenty of people out there with fatal cancer would gladly give up control over their bowels just so they could have more time that included loved ones and adult diapers.

I found this stash of adult diapers at a recent estate sale. I should have purchased them, eh?

5)      Perspective: Get some. Because what you look like and how your body malfunctions doesn’t define you. Check it: Frida Kahlo had a mustache. She embraced it, and that fine line of hair was her trademark, and people worldwide still think she’s beautiful. Plus, she was confined to bed for months as the result of a horrific car accident, so you can’t tell me that she didn’t defecate in her drawers at least once during her recovery. And her husband, Diego Rivera, was a bloated, rounded man. And guess what? Nobody gives a shit that these two paradigm-altering artists a) had facial hair, b) had unexpected bowel movements, and c) had three chins. Why? Because we are remembered for WHO we are, what we DO, and the people and causes we LOVE. And anyway, if I die and the only thing people can think of to write on my tombstone is “She spontaneously defecated with abandon,” I’ll easily be the most interesting person in that cemetery, and I still win!

Following these steps is not easy. But then again, neither is shitting yourself. So, if you have to look at the toilet roll as half used or half full, pick the latter. Or, you know, just go buy more toilet paper, because, really, you don’t want to run out of it. That’s just gross. 

{P.S. I make light of my cancer situation because I realize exactly how lucky I am to have one that is treatable and curable. I know how fortunate I am that I will have more birthdays, anniversaries, weekends, trips, and sprints to the bathroom. Gratitude abounds in the Sandy household.}