Well, shit. Now we have another cat.

I mean, sure, we said that we'll try to find her owners, that she probably just escaped and someone has to be looking for her. And, sure, we'll put up signs and whatnot and canvass the neighbors, but if we don't find her family, it's not like we can just let her go again or turn her over to a shelter. And I can't think of anyone who might be willing to take her, especially since I know of several other people who are currently trying to find homes for kittens. So, yeah. Maybe we'll find her family, and I hope we do, but if not, we'll be a four cat family. Bleh. Four freakin' cats.

So if you happen to live in or around Victorian Village, and you or someone you know lost a little white kitty with blue eyes and a fluffy tail, please let me know. I don't want four cats, people, I really don't. Don't get me wrong, I love kitties, I do. But I'm not yet ready to commit to the whole crazy cat lady thing just yet. Three cats is too many already, and four is just ridiculous. Le sigh.

On a side note: How do these goddamn cats know that we're suckers? It's like they're drawn to our house, like the stray cat network has put out the word that we'll take them in. During the Depression, hobo-types would mark houses in which kind people lived so other hobo-types would know where to go for a hot meal or a cup of coffee. I can't help but wonder if the strays haven't marked our house in a similar manner, if there isn't some symbol on our front porch that says, "Here be suckers."

*****

A few weeks ago, I said I was tired. I was wrong. On a scale of one to ten, one being “Cracked-up ADD Gibbon” and ten being “Coma Queen,” I was at level 7, maybe 7.5. Today I have achieved at least level 13. By next week, if things continue as they have, I will be so tired, I will actually start sucking the energy from all those around me like some giant black hole of exhaustion. Not even Richard Simmons will be able to maintain his perky disposition in my presence. As I walk down the street, cheerleaders and hyperactive toddlers will collapse with fatigue in my wake. Hummingbirds will fall from the sky, tiny little snores escaping their beaks. Everywhere I go, I will leave behind a trail of slumped-over, drooling creatures. It won’t be pretty.

I am. so very. tired.

*****

A good friend is someone who sticks by you through thick and thin, someone who is there for the good times and the bad. They might not be able to help with the bad stuff, but they’re there all the same, and that’s what matters.

By that definition, eczema is my best friend ever. It is always fucking there. When things are good, there it is. When things are bad, there it is. It sure as hell can’t help with the bad stuff, but there it fucking is all the same.

The thing that pisses me off about eczema, aside from the fact that it’s a DISGUSTING ITCHY RASH, is that stress is one of its triggers. Why? Why does it come out when I’m under stress? How is a disgusting itchy rash going to help my stress level? The body has all these annoying physiological responses to stress, and I just don’t understand why. It’s like my body is trying to tell me that I’m under stress and that I need to take it easy and relax. Maybe it’s the human version of squealing brakes. Brake pads are supposed to start squealing when they get worn past a certain point. That’s how you know to replace them before they get too worn out and your rotors and cylinders and junk get damaged. (Or whatever the hell gets damaged when your brake pads get too worn. A mechanic, I am not.) Which is all well and good for a car. Without the squealing, I wouldn’t know that it’s time to change the brake pads. But like I don’t already know that I’m under stress? Like I couldn’t possibly figure out that I’m on the fucking edge without a GODDAMN RASH to tell me?! “What the…what the hell? I have hives! Where did they come from? Holy crapweasels, I think I might be stressed out! Thank God for that rash! I would have never figured it out otherwise.” I mean, what the fuck, Body? Don’t you think that if I could reduce my stress, I would reduce my stress? Is it absolutely necessary to slap a rash upside my head? Like that’s going to help? Isn’t there anything else you could do that might actually help? What about releasing some damn endorphins, huh? That would help a whole hell of a lot more than a goddamn rash, you know. But noooooo, no endophins from you. Instead you give me insomnia and rashes and facial tics and assorted other annoying things that aren’t helping the situation ONE GODDAMN BIT. Sometimes I think you hate me, Body, I really do. You’re supposed to be looking out for me, you know? What the fuck.

A friend of mine once told me that she used to get the most intense and bizarre cravings when she was pregnant, cravings that went far beyond the traditional pickles and ice cream sort. While weeding her garden, she’d be nearly overcome with the desire to cram handfuls of dirt in her mouth. She said the dirt just looked so rich and delicious. Once, while attending a parent/teacher conference for her other child, she became fixated on the teacher’s chalk. My friend said that she kept imagining how satisfying it would be to crunch on one of the sticks. If she’d been alone in the room, she would have stolen a box to try. Her doctor told her that such cravings aren’t uncommon, that sometimes they are a body’s way of telling a person they need some vitamin or mineral that the things they crave represent. I asked my doctor about it, and she agreed. She said that everyone gets cravings like that, that they’re just more bizarre and intense for pregnant ladies. She said that most people ignore the cravings or don’t know what they mean. I thought that was kind of cool, you know? Not the part about people ignoring their cravings, but the idea that if we could only learn to listen to what our bodies are trying to tell us, we could eat healthily and get all the minerals and vitamins and stuff we need without relying on supplements.

A couple of weeks later, as I sat on my ass watching cartoons, a fierce desire for Nutella overcame me. The intense craving hit me like a ton of bricks, and I was powerless to deny it. I ran to the kitchen and madly searched the pantry. I knew my roommate had a secret, emergency stash, and I was determined to find it. I finally managed to locate the jar, but couldn’t find anything to dip in the Nutella. Pretzels would have been perfect, but we were all out. I desperately cast about the kitchen for something else to use, when I found a package of Tabasco Slim Jims. Ah ha! Perfection! Before you say anything, I know, right? What a disgusting and vile combination! Just the thought of it makes me queasy. But at the time, I thought it was the most amazing and delicious taste sensation known to man. Unfortunately, there were only a couple of Slim Jims left in the package, and it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy my craving. Once again, I tore the kitchen apart in search of something to go with the Nutella. I was like a crazy person, consumed by the vicious craving. I found a package of hot dogs in the refrigerator, and I pulled one out to try. As I sat there, jar of Nutella in one hand, cold weenie in the other, about to commit a heinous act of culinary madness, sanity finally prevailed. What in the fuck am I doing, I thought to myself. Hot dogs and Nutella?! Who in their right mind would even consider such an abomination? As I sat there contemplating my own depravity, my eyes lit upon our wall calendar. Realization dawned, and I dropped the weenie and the Nutella in order to do a couple of quick calculations. It became clear to me what was going on:

PMS.

Finally, it all made sense. The cravings, their intensity, their weirdness…all a result of PMS. Then I thought about the conversation I’d had with my doctor, and how sometimes cravings are your body’s way of telling you that you need some vitamin or mineral or something. I tried to think what vitamins or minerals the Nutella and hot dogs might represent, but I couldn’t think of anything. In fact, as I thought about all the things I’d eaten over the years as a result of PMS, I started to wonder if any of them were a result of me needing certain vitamins or minerals. Usually when my hormones are all bajiggity, I crave sugar and salt. I want to stuff my face full of Cheetos and cookies and chocolate and all the things that make me sick and fat. Why, if cravings are supposed to tell me what nutrients my body is lacking, does PMS make me want the things that are the absolute worst for me?

Lately, as every square inch of me succumbs to the evil eczema, and I sleep less and less each night, and my left eye twitches constantly, I’ve been thinking about the cravings thing again. When I first heard about it, I thought that it was cool how our bodies were telling us what we need in order to stay healthy. But now I’m thinking that it’s all just a bunch of bullshit, that our bodies are not looking out for us, but actually hate us, that all of this…the stress rashes, the insomnia, the weird and insane cravings…are part of some cruel joke. It makes me think that there is a god responsible for our creation and that he’s kind of a dick. He’s a dick with a malicious and fucked up sense of humor that makes him do things like saddle us with stress rashes and insomnia and with disgusting and foul cravings we can’t ignore. I think he’s probably up there somewhere giggling at us as we scratch and twitch and cram our faces full of hot dogs and Nutella.

Asshole.

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