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Sex and the single girl
Projectile kitty vomit and men bashing
by Rachel Welychka
the Carillon
Alright, I meant to write a column this week. I really did, honest! Actually, I did write a column this week, a fantastic column, but then my cat threw up on it. I came home late from work one day and was in the process of stripping off my work clothes when I looked over to see a huge, hairy, slimy mess on top of what used to be my column. My beautiful, silky, prissy cat, Pekoe, the obvious perpetrator, was meditating nearby.
“Pekoe!” I shrieked, “What did you do?!” Pekoe opened her eyes only enough to show little slits of yellow. “Wouldn’t you rather me throw up on your column than in your bed?” her sultry glance seemed to say.
Pekoe has this sort of no-nonsense way of looking at things. I actually preferred that she barf all over my column than all over my bed when I was ready to go to sleep. So I tossed the soaked column, crawled into bed with Pekoe curled up around my legs, and drifted off to sleep. The reprint of the column could wait until morning. It was late, and I was tired.
The next morning I woke up with a start; I had a sense something was wrong. My column deadline loomed over my head. I dragged myself out of bed at some ghastly hour (probably before 8:30 a.m.) and propped my laptop open on my lap. The battery was dead! After much cursing and stomping around uttering vicious words about my brother who obviously wore the battery right out the night before playing poker and chatting online, I found the power cord under my bed.
I plugged my computer in and turned it on. All at once my MSN lit up like a Roman candle. “Rachel! I need your help!” one friend pleaded. “My boyfriend is an asshole!” “Men are shit!” cried the others. Now, in a time of need, can I really say to my friends, “Sorry, Please put your crises on hold, I have a column to write.” No, I can’t! And furthermore, I can’t resist a “men are shit” conversation. Ever!
Let me tell you, these conversations were brutally intense! My friend Rebecca’s boyfriend was cheating on her with her roommate’s best friend and Rebecca was wondering if that meant she could cheat on her boyfriend with his best friend. Jesse’s new boyfriend had gone AWOL for 3 days and she was refusing to call him first–you know, for the principle of things, and Miranda had started dating a guy who was 33. He’s 12 years her senior, and surprise surprise–he is a bit of a jackass. She wanted to vent. Eventually we created one massive 4-way conversation about men, cheating, age differences and the whole nine yards. It was fantastic. I ditched my old cosmically barfed-upon column and began to save and compose a new, more exciting one fantasizing about the perfect tortured romance! I was in heaven! This was going to be good!
After much conversing and reworking, I was happily reading over my newly finished masterpiece and was in the midst of congratulating myself on a job well done (having finished just moments ahead of my deadline) when Pekoe started making wretching noises. In the midst of my feverish typing I had failed to notice Pekoe nibbling delicately upon my plant, which she now wanted to throw up all over the bed. My brother rushed into the room to see what all the hacking and wretching noises were about and, as we were raised in a family which likes to catch animal barf on the fly before it hits the intended (usually valuable) object it is propelled at, he yelled, “Grab some paper!” I guess I didn’t move fast enough, as he quickly grabbed my column and thrust it under the cat’s chin. I screeched in horror and the laptop went flying.
So, I digress, but I did actually write two columns this week. And they were both fantastic!
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