The Chronicles of Jan Part 1

Dear current 11 followers,

Endless apologies for not writing more as of late. I've had a concussion and have been on forced "brain rest." I have also moved to Rhode Island for the summer. Details, details, I know.

So let me tell you a little bit about my new living situation with Janny Bear. We "met" on craigslist. Red flag numero uno. I should have been deterred by her self-described adjectives like "hip" and "progressive" - frightening words for a woman d'un certain age - but let's get real. The rent is only $375 a month and I've lived in worse conditions of squalor. So I said "eh" and now here I am living in Pawtucket, RI with a 65 year old woman most likely in her early stages of dementia.

I was promised a king size bed. The day before I came it was demoted to a queen. Upon my arrival I discovered it was a full size. Look at the neat bedding that even came free with rent!

There are no window treatments on any of the windows. Only weird strings of wooden beads. You know the kind that hang in doorways? A la 2003? Yes, those. I especially love this perk when I take showers at night. There is a My Little Pony sticker fused to the toilet seat. It's far enough away from my ass though, so I really don't mind this. Jan was kind enough to line the nine drawers of my dresser with grandma-scented paper liners so my whole room is perfumed with the scent of retirement and older adult living. It smells as if someone made my 87 year old grandmother the manager of a Pier 1 Imports and let her play around with the potpourri all day.

Sale Up in HURR

Quick FYI guys -

50% off any one item in my etsy shop through Memorial Day. Just enter "FOUND" in the coupon code box at checkout!

My Thoughts on Barack Obama

Since we all know I am not a political pundit and politics are for stuffy losers with scary deviant agendas, I'll cut the shit and get to the point. If you want to know my opinions on Barack Obama, I'll tell you straight up - I'm his number one fan. And by number one fan I mean that in 2008 I invested 5 dollars in a "hope" shirt in spirit of the season. I'll have you know that this is now my ultimate favorite shirt to wear to bed when I'm shitfaced and there is a large chance I am going to vomit on myself.

Now let me give you an organized list of why we all should help re-elect him in 2012.

He's a babe. You can't try to tell me Barack is not a fine-ass piece of hot milk chocolate. Barry, if you're reading this, let me be the cream filling to your Oreo cookie.

He's like the cool dad I never had.  I'm not trying to say that I don't have a real father. He just isn't cool. Bear (as he would let me call him because he is a cool dad) is someone that is a double whammy because not only is he casual and not embarrassing, but all my friends would think he is hot (see above.) Bear is like that cool dad that knows that your 13-year-old self and your three friends stole that one single wine cooler out of the fridge and are taking turns sipping it in your bedroom, but doesn't say anything because he is hip and "with it." His way of confronting the situation is leaving a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade under your pillow and sending you a smiley face text.

He doesn't embarrass me in front of my foreign friends. Nothing is worse than annoying foreigners quoting your embarrassing president and pointing out his obvious lack of knowledge about anything besides college sports and the best tasting light beers. Barack has brought an end to these taunts.

The list could go on, and on, and on, but by now I'm sure I've adequately convinced you of Barry's ability to lead the nation. Fox News, I'll be looking out for an email invitation to provide political commentary on any of your numerous segments, because as you can see, even this horse shit I wrote is more coherent than the crap your hosts spew out.

Sad News - But You Readers Can Make A Difference!

I have some grave news my fellow kitty cats. It has come to my attention that an unspeakable tragedy is occurring before our own oblivious eyes just south of the border (note: this is not referring to my horrendous case of bikini razor burn, but to Mexico.) No, I am not speaking of the drug cartels, countless cases of human trafficking, or kidnapped American tourists who were only looking to try to get laid and party cheap in Tijuana. The news that I am about to tell you will affect your family, your friends, and most certainly your girls night out at the local Chili's™. 

Tequila production has dropped dramatically in recent years and this precious nectar of the gods may soon disappear altogether. If you want to learn more click here, but reading is boring and I know you guys have more important things to do like raid your local liquor stores in search for any "especials" on decent "ta-kill-ya." 

But don't worry friends. There is hope. Bono has his RED thing going on, Michelle Obama has her making kids stop being fat tubs of lard foundation, and now I have my own way to make the world a better place. May I present to you my new philanthropic campaign - "Treasure Our Tequila."

I know you all are dying to ask, "But how can I contribute to such a great cause?" Great question, folks. All you need to do is send a check, paypal transaction, or money order to my home address. That's it! It's that easy! I guzzle enough tequila weekly to keep a small Mexican village of agave farmers thriving for at least 12 years. 

Make a difference. Help a family. Treasure our tequila. 

Day of Rapture - Fiesta Time!

note: I do not know this man, he is just the first thing that came up in my image search for aluminum hat

This shit is just too weird for me not to write about. Tomorrow's the "big day" and call me simple, but I just don't get it. We've been inundated with articles on how these people have been traveling for months, cashed in their retirement funds, blah blah to warn people about tomorrow. Thanks for the heads up, but aren't I already pretty much fucked at this point? It's like if a fortune teller in the midst of my 20 dollar tarot card reading tells me that I'm going to die in a mysterious way sometime within the "vague future." And I say "ok....so.........like what I am supposed to do about it?"I think it's kind of unfair that I only get this warning years after I knew what the deal was. Had I known, I would have kept on perpetuating my 10 year old self into the future years, and tomorrow there I would be, decked out in my lavender corduroy overalls reading Goosebumps books with my cardinal treasure still intact.

So since it appears I'm shit out of luck, I'll just have to make other arrangements for 6 p.m. tomorrow. I'm hoping that Jesus plans on making an appearance at the Tampa Bay Lightning after-party I had been planning on. Hopefully he will see that I am the only human soul worth redeeming because I will be the lone female not wearing an oversized jersey cinched at the waist to make it appear like a jersey "dress." We will bond in our mutual distaste for this misguided attempt at fashion and Voila! See you in heaven guys, brb! My other plan was to wrap my head in aluminum foil a la M. Night Shyamalan but it's probably neither the time nor the place tomorrow evening...

Why Adult Sleepovers Suck - An Essay

Just in case you were wondering why I decided to name this post as an essay, it's because I don't want the New Yorker calling me in a tizzy saying, "WE LOVE YOUR ARTICLE ON ADULT SLEEPOVERS. THINK UP A TITLE NOW!" and I, in a state of temporary panic and euphoria, will be too beside myself to think of a brilliant name like the one I wrote above. Let us get to the "meat" of this essay.

Adult sleepovers suck. By adult sleepovers, I mean lingering around in bed after you and your sexual partner have had an invigorating 20 minutes of love-making and now you two are spent. It's human instinct  to fall asleep in the arms of your lover. Do not, I repeat, do not, do this.

First off, if you are in the bed of another person with whom you are pretty much unfamiliar, there is a 98% chance that you were drunk when you decided to undertake this conquest. If you are the remaining sober 2% who decided to do this then.......I just feel bad for you? I don't know what to say. Chances are, you will awaken with you on the polar opposite side of the bed than your conquest, with his back facing towards you, which I don't know if this is right, but if I remember correctly, signals a primal instinct to curl up in the fetal position to shield ourselves from fear. Awkward. Secondly, you probably look like ass. If you are like me, you wake up looking like one of the characters from the beloved series The Boxcar Children, because indeed, it fucking looks like you slept in some abandoned cargo freight. Your mouth is sticky like you just ate wads of cotton candy at Coney Island and somehow, in the span of 8 hours, your hair has gone from shiny and beautiful to looking like sweaty recess hair. You look over at the male specimen lying 6 feet away from you and realize that he kind of has the physique of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and is that....a DiGiorno "Pizza and Wyngz" box lying next to your bra...? Shit.

All of this could have been easily avoided if you had avoided the adult sleepover. I don't even like that name anyways - I'm using it because Kristen Wiig used it in "Bridesmaids" and it's the only word combo that abridges the "I drunkenly slept over and boned someone, who in the morning looks like the current Mel Gibson" kind of situation I describe. Adult sleepover reminds me of adult diapers or adult education, both of which are too unsavory to talk about on this worldly blog.

genesis

For those of you who are googling "genesis" and other bible-related terms in light of the upcoming Day of Judgement - May 21st - and found this blog post instead, I say ha! fooled ya bitches! Instead, here you are,  reading the very first blog post of a 20 year old girl-not-yet-a-woman whose ego is currently over-inflated from hours of solitude with nothing but Tina Fey and Chelsea Handler books to fill her time.

Before you promptly leave my blog to google more tidbits of info about the glorious day of rapture and then head on over to Old Navy's online catalog to pick out a jazzy outfit for this upcoming Saturday the 21st, let me introduce you to what this little project is about.

Like I said, fueled by nothing more than an entire bag of Cheeto's all natural white cheddar puffs and the rantings of two middle aged female comedians, I have decided to turn to the comfort of the virtual world to share my god-given gift of delightful humor. Why the blog url "whatkittensays?" Good question, new friends. Kitty is my real life, and now online, internety-alias because I don't want the computer world know who I iz n' shit, you know? Haven't you ever seen Dateline NBC? What if I get fooled into coming over to one of my new online friend's - let's call him "Ray"- house to "chill"? What if Ray then strangles and dismembers me and turns me into chili? That's a risk i'm not willing to take (yet). Maybe when I start collecting followers like the Pied Piper collected rats (and by this I mean my followers is n>5) I will reveal my TRUE identity. Anywhoos, I played around for about 5 minutes with possible blog names involving variations of the name "kitty", "kitten" and in the last 15 seconds in my darkest hours of desperation, "puss." I'm sorry to say that I'm tardy to the blog world party, and the only available url was "prettylilkitty" which either sounded like a discrete way to name a blog where you post pictures of your cupcake or an actual blog about someone's kitty, created by a very, very, sad woman living in Ohio.