I find it very difficult to take anything my mother says seriously when there are photographs of her like this floating around on the internet:

(Sorry mama…the public needs to know.)

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I am going to my parents’ house to watch the Oscars AND I am going to lose five whole dollars this weekend!

I bet five bucks in the office Oscar pool and my strategy was to basically just throw some ink around on the paper and hope it goes well. I have only seen about three movies in the running, and I’m always a poor judge of what the academy will select. The only things I am sure of are A) If Terry Gilliam doesn’t win for art direction, I will have an actual fit. B) I am 84% certain that I am going to be having an actual fit.

But I can’t get too upset, though, because the sting of both losses will be soothed by meat. No, seriously- my dad is making pastrami. AND he’s a doctor. So it should be Prescription Strength Soothing Pastrami.

Have a simply super weekend!

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I was NEARLY MURDERED LAST NIGHT.

By a cat.

…

Stop laughing.

The apartment complex is being overrun by cats. While I know many terrific people who love and own cats, and I wish them all the best, I, personally, cannot stand the little devils. This stems from the following: a) my aversion to cat boxes and the corresponding odor, b) a traumatic childhood incident and c) what the cats that live in our apartment complex left on the hood of Paul’s car a few months ago, pictured below (viewer discretion advised).

Thank you Cat. Thank you for licking yourself until you puked up a ball of your own hair. And thank you for choosing to release said ball directly onto a piece of machinery that one must use every day.

Yes, the cat is a creature who will defile your motor vehicle with its fur boluses. The cat is also a creature who will vomit in your cabinets as a way to express jealousy when you bring home a new computer. This does not inspire me to want to buy food for one. But it seems to inspire many of my dwelling-mates to do it. MANY OF THEM. In fact, each week I notice no fewer than two more cats slinking around the parking lot. Driving into the driveway is becoming a safety issue. It used to be a safety issue for the cats (Car vs. Cat). Now it’s a safety issue for me (Car vs. Pile Of Cats).

I think I know where they’re all coming from, too. At night, just as the first delicious clouds of sleep begin to settle over my brain, the terrible sound of “Cat Multiplication” begins. At first I couldn’t tell if they were fighting or… “being intimate,” but once the parking lot started to turn into that Wanda Gag book, I figured it out (I got an A in high school biology).

But, yeah, the murder attempt. You see, what happened was, I was getting out of car after a long day, and heading up the stairs. I heard a horrible, low growl, but ignored it because I am always hearing horrible low growls in Cat Village. But this time, it was different- it quickly became louder, more high-pitched. I looked up to see a puffy gray cat flying across my face, claws extended. Its eyes met mine and it howled again.

Then it slammed into the railing next to me, landing on the stairs and wriggling through the wrought iron into some ivy. Phew! A narrow escape if ever there was one.

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Louis and the extremely talented Genevieve Artadi (sorry ladies, they’re dating) recently did a cover of Britney Spears’ “3.” They shot it as a video song, meaning that as each instrument is recorded for the final audio track, the player is visually recorded, so that the resulting music video is an accurate representation of what you are hearing. No lip-syncing, air-guitar, or trickery of any kind.

They really do a great job of punching up this song. In the words of the YouTube User SeanDuncanMusic: “dude louis cole is so legit on the drums.” I agree, Sean. He is so legit. Enjoy:

(*I helped with the editing.)

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For those of you who don’t know, I have a new job. I’m working on a pilot with some of my old “ER” pals, as well as some new folk. At this job, I share a small office and field calls and set up meetings and do all sorts of other assistant-y tasks.

Yesterday, a crazy man arrived to deliver a package. He looks to be in his late 30s and was wearing a large, grimy sweatshirt and some fabulous, giant glasses that screamed 1980s Repeat Sex Offender. Honestly, when he walked in, I was afraid to take the package he was holding because the only possibilities I saw were that a) it was a bomb or b) it contained the mangled phalanges of someone I hold dear.

As my officemate signed for the package, the man told us, “You know, I’m gonna be famous soon.” The way I see it, there are several kinds of fame. I just assumed, by the way he looked at us and said “soon,” that he meant the bad kind of fame. The “Kenmore Freezer Full of Heads” kind of fame. So I was relieved when he said, “I’m a comedian.”

But that high quickly wore off when he went on to explain: “I do sound effects that no one else does.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Sounds great!” I clicked my mouse a few times and frowned at my monitor in an effort to look busy.

“But first,” he announced, “I’m going to move to Illinois.” This was because the houses were cheap, he told me. Then we played a fun little game where he stared at me over the top of his Rapist Glasses until I correctly guessed the asking price that the real estate agent had quoted him for a house in Southern Illinois. (Correct Answer: $30,000.)

He wanted to share some of his fame-worthy noises with us. I put my finger to my lips to indicate the need for quiet and said, “People are on the phone, so we have to keep it down.” I should not have said that because he leaned in about 9 centimeters from my head to give his performance.

And guess what? He can do the sound of a dog squeaky toy. He can do the sound of “the ice cream man.” Here’s the thing: They sound the same. Both were sort of melted, low hooting noises. Alright, I’ll be fair. There were some minor differences. For instance, his “dog squeaky toy” was not unlike one of those mournful sounds the bonobos make when they are in the zoo alone at night, thinking of the jungle, while the “ice cream man” sounded exactly like what I imagine it would sound like if you were to murder an owl. Which is a sound I do not recall from childhood.

Both were followed by a hearty round of snort-laughter. I don’t know if that was part of it or not. I didn’t ask.

Paul calls these kinds of people “off the grid.” When I told him about the messenger, he said, “You’re always wondering if those guys are gonna try something if they’re that off the grid. What if they have a gun or bite you?”

I told him I was more worried about him leaving a lasting odor.

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Those of you who visited the site yesterday and did not sustain devastating head injuries may remember the story I shared with you about the Fort, a hollowed out bush in the corner of my parents’ back yard. Features of the Fort included: Quaint dirt-and-leaf floors, ample shade, old tree stump on which to balance a tray full of hot dogs, backyard view, and one full chainlink wall. Today, I offer you the second of my most vivid memories of the time spent there.

Whenever Louie or I had friends over, we would bring them to the Fort, treating it like a staging area for whatever we had planned for the day. One late afternoon, after a full day of play, Lou’s friend – we’ll call him Floyd – was in there with us, waiting for his mother (let’s call her Inga). She was up on the porch with my mom, chatting. She had arrived 15 minutes earlier to pick Floyd up, but was side-tracked by my mom’s boring Lady Talk, so we had some extra time to play. Inga had also brought Floyd’s sister, who we will call Rüdy (yes, with an umlaut). Rüdy was nine years old, a year older than I, and was fond of her power over the three of us. It wasn’t always pleasant watching the way she treated Floyd, but we invited her into the Fort anyway.

We played rather peacefully for awhile, and then Rüdy decided she needed to use the bathroom. The Fort was in the very far corner of the yard, and down a hill. Getting to the bathroom, while necessary, seemed like a huge mission when you would prefer to be sitting in the dirt, ordering your little brother and his friends around. Realistically, it only took about 45 seconds to get there. Still Rüdy was quite annoyed that nature was calling at that particular moment.

The clever, head injury-free reader will notice two things. One: The features of the Fort, as described above, do not include an en-suite bathroom. Two: I’m using fake names. Which can only mean one thing… Get it? You don’t? Yes you do- you just don’t want to get it. Let me spell it out for you:

She crapped in my yard.

No lie. Rüdy, daughter of Inga, sister of Floyd, removed the necessary garments, lowered herself to the ground and, without requesting privacy, moved her bowels in the dirt in front of the Fort.

And then, she turned, still squatting, and said to me, “Go get me some toilet paper.” I didn’t move right away. I was trying to wrap my little brain around the speed at which she had shifted from Street Person to Civilized Girl. “Friend,” I thought, “you just pooped in my yard. You want to use toilet paper?” Now we were being civilized?

Yet, so deep was my astonishment, that I began hiking up the hill toward the house to retrieve some TP anyway. When I got to the bathroom, I tried to sneak in and out as quickly as possible so as to avoid any MomWrath. However, I was unable to locate a fresh roll, and was forced to sheepishly ask, “Mom, where’s the toilet paper?”

She couldn’t be fooled. She knew the TP Status of all bathrooms in the house. There should be no need for a replacement yet. Inga knew this too, and so two suspicious mothers turned from their chat on the porch to ask, “Why…?”

I was trapped. The fact that I’d looked for the stuff first and asked for it only after coming up empty-handed had been a dead giveaway. They knew something was up, and now we were all gonna get it. Then I realized- Louis and I wouldn’t be in trouble. Neither would Floyd, I don’t think. Anyway, I was willing to risk that. The only one to blame was Rüdy. So, I took a deep breath and said: “Rüdy pooped in the yard.”

I don’t remember what happened after that, but I’m sure it involved a chorus of shrill, “WHAT?”s.

Also, it’s the last memory I have of hanging out in the Fort.

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Please, try not to be jealous, but I used to have my own cave fort, conveniently located in a far corner of my parents’ backyard. Thought it felt palatial, the Fort was actually just the hollow underside of a large bush, an ugly piece of vegetation. Mostly sticks with a few leaves and some purple berries that smelled pretty weird. But it was excellent. A secluded place to hang out. A place where Nerf offensives were planned and hot dogs were eaten. A place where memories were made. Today and tomorrow, I offer you two of these memories.

The first involves one of the abundant sticks that made up the Fort’s ceiling. Louis and my friend Vicky and I were killing some time lounging under the odoriferous berries, trying to decide how we could squeeze more fun into what had already been a pretty satisfying Saturday. It was decided it would be best if Vicky could spend the night, just so we could ensure that each of us was a complete, cranky wreck for all of Sunday. I made the trek back to the house to ask my mom for permission. Against her better judgment she gave us the ok, to which I responded “SHE SAID YEAH!!!” and hauled ass out of the house, screaming my response for all to hear.

Happily spouting out ideas for our upcoming slumber party, I started down the hill at the edge of the yard. Normally, I’d take my time getting down the the little hill (I was afraid of falling down all four feet of it, you see) and then make a left at the bottom and enter the Fort, careful to move low-hanging branches out of my way. This time, my excitement overtook me, and I went flying at a full run down the hill, skidding to my left. I continued my stream of nonsense: “…and we could go to the store and get Cheetos and watch Zorro and put on a show and…”

What should have happened next was the simultaneous finishing of my sentence and entrance of the Fort, followed by feverish planning for an evening of junk food and very little sleep. What actually happened next was that I was silenced in the middle of my plans for our midnight snack, by a stick. Which I ran into. With my eye.

If you’ve never run full speed ahead into a branch with a delicate part of your face, I wouldn’t suggest starting now. Unless you’re like me and you think having a scabbed up black eye is cool. Let me tell you, it went over very well with my 2nd Grade peers. I told a few people the real story. I told a lot more people that I was in a fight. With a boy. And I won.

More on my compulsive lying in another post. In the meantime, tune in tomorrow for the second of my vivid Fort memories!

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I was lucky enough to be able to have dinner with my dad three out of the past four nights. My dad is an excellent eating companion. First because he usually orders dessert, and second because he gets pretty silly, and doesn’t care who sees him. Louie and my mom, who were also there for two of the three dinners, are no different. Family meals are never quiet. When Louie and I were younger, we’d actually get so worked up and silly over dinner, that my parents would have to sit us down beforehand and remind us that “Dad’s been working all day, and he is tired and would like to be able to have a nice dinner and get a word in edgewise for lord’s sake. So please try not to take up the ENTIRE conversation with your endless wall of sound.” We’d sheepishly agree to the New Dinner Terms and go about our day. But once we all sat down, someone would belch, mom would crack a smile, and it would be all over.

In honor of so many loony Cole Family Dinners, I would like to present a few photos of our dinners over the years.

Here are some choice moments from a lunch we had at Pea Soup Andersons a few years ago:

Louis went into hiding after we noticed how large the Christmas-themed centerpieces were.

Dad drank his coffee “handsfree.” I can’t remember why.

And why tone it down on foreign soil? Here’s a sample of what happened in Italy in 2004:

Louie photographs me being attacked by a fork.

Someone was doing something to make my mom laugh this hard. Tears and abdominal pain are common side effects of our raucous dinners.

A work of art by Louis.

And finally, our yearly trips to Seattle, wherein the entire Cole Family gets together to laugh and eat:

Someone brought a propeller beanie to the dinner table and we all took turns modeling it…

…even the Matriarch of the family, my grandma Nina. See where we all get it?

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Today would have been my dog Melvin’s birthday, but he up an’ died on me a few years back so now I have no canine to cook bacon for on this special day. Instead I will celebrate by giving away a FREE PUPPY TO THE FIRST TEN PEOPLE WHO COMMENT ON THIS POST!

Oh wait. No I won’t.

To celebrate, I will show you this photo of my favorite beast:

This was one of Mel’s go-to relaxation maneuvers, whenever his life got too overwhelming (lord knows all those table scraps and walkies can really tax one’s constitution). If we hadn’t heard from him in awhile, it was a sure bet he would be upstairs in the office. There you could find him on his back, spread eagle, lips completely slack. When he was finished, he’d writhe around on the carpet for a second, flip over and give a violent sneeze that usually shot him back a few inches. Then it was back to his busy schedule- he had bunnies to annoy and spots on the kitchen floor to lick.

Now I will stop typing before I start to cry. Happy Birthday, Melvin!

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Due to my continued excellence in the field of housekeeping, I have managed (somehow) to neglect a corner underneath the window in the shower. Last week, I noticed a medium-sized brown spider living among the shampoo bottles and grime, curling and uncurling its legs. Instant heebie jeebies. I calmly mentioned it to Paul, who was watching TV: “DAMMIT THERE’S A SPIDER IN THE SHOWER!” He swiftly entered and smashed the thing without a word- he knows what his duties are around here.

A couple of days later, I found the spider’s buddy. She was a lot smaller than Spider 1, and wasn’t flicking her awful legs around, so I decided she could stay. Every time I took a shower (which I’d love to be able to say was every day, but can’t), Spider 2 and I saw each other. She never moved, or did anything creepy. She just sat there, happy to be in the steam.

Then last night I came home from the pool and Spider 2 was nowhere to be found. Oh no! I thought to myself. Paul must have killed her! How could he?! I understood why Paul had squashed her. It’s very clearly (un)written in his job description that he must destroy any and all arachnid intruders at any time of the day or night. He’d probably assumed he was the first to see her (she was in a spot that only someone with a crippling fear of the eight-legged would have checked) and wanted to kill her before I even realized she was there. But even so, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d lost a little pal. She was a good spider- calm, patient, respectful of my space and of a relatively non-threatening size.

When I stepped from the shower, I asked Paul, “Hey, did you kill that spider in the shower?” “Yeah. Like a week ago.” “Not today?” “Not today.”

Not today.

She was still alive. But she was NOT in her spot. Which could mean only this: She had tripled in size, laid eggs in my pillow and was lying in wait inside of my contact lens case. They’re all the same, those spiders, luring you into a false sense of security, often going so far as to make you think you’re friends, and then wreaking havoc on your little apartment. I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.

Now I have to throw away a perfectly good pillow AND get Lasik.

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