Creepy Proofing Your House

To start, you should probably never date someone with an MS in Computer Sciences if you want to creepily blog about him secretly.  Because apparently nothing is private on the internet.  Who knew?  Wikipedia ensured me that everything I read on the internet was true and 100% secure.  So, if you're sleeping with me or you're my mom, please stop reading now.

I've had a bit of writer's block lately.  So, the other day I was picking up 89798709827343 cat toys off the floor in preparation for Sexypants' arrival and it hit me... wow, I completely change my entire house before he comes over.  And I never realized how incredibly creepy my condo is until I started getting laid on the reg.

Like, if you know me well enough to have purchased me a present at some point, you've 100% purchased me a cat themed item.  Because... I love my cats.  If I had to create my own heaven... it would be full of fat, fluffy assed cats, non-addictive Xanax, sauvignon blanc, men's cologne (but none of that f*cking Axe Body Spray shit... have some dignity, guys), duvet covers that are stain-proof (if you catch my drift), and mountains of calorie-free McDonald's french fries.  Judge all you want, bitches.  It's my heaven and my heaven has McDonald's.  And also healthy Diet Coke... that spurts out of Chris Hemsworth's belly button.

I digress.

Anyway, I really like cats.  I always have.  When we were little, my sister would always bring home drawings of our family and Jesus; and I brought home a picture of a cat every f*cking time.  Because cats are like my soulmates.  They don't drool, they clean their own asses, they're quiet, and they shit in a box from day one.  They're the best animals because they're just like me.  Except I don't shit in a box...  Or, at least I haven't yet. #neversaynever #tequila

TO THE POINT, KIRA.  The point is that people buy me a lot of cat shit.  And I love every single cat item I've ever received as a gift. But, at some point, the fun gift obsession becomes slightly creepy and sexually prophylactic. Remember the movie Dodgeball where Vince Vaughn goes to whatsherface's house and it's covered in unicorn figurines and posters?

That's my house... but replace unicorns with cats. And honestly, unicorns are probably more socially acceptable.

So, every single time Sexypants comes over, I hide like half my cat shit.  Because... sex.  And some of my cat art/prints have those eyes that like follow you and stare at you while you're getting it on. And no one likes Puffy watching them get it on. Here's a list of the things that get hidden, or as I like to call it, "temporarily relocated".

1.  At least two of the five cat posters/art pieces in my room.  Usually this includes the beautifully custom commissioned portrait of Puffy & Chunk.  But the animated giant Puffy & Chunk posters stay.

2. Any items of cat clothing.  Except socks.  These seem more acceptable for some reason.  Cat pants, skirts, shirts, and hats get put away in the closet.  I try not to bust out any cat themed clothing until at least the 27th date; as a general rule.

3. Half of the bucket of cat toys.  Puffy & Chunk like to live in a very stimulating environment.  But they don't need 98709872343 toy options on the nights I'm getting laid.

4. At least five of the seven empty shoe boxes lying around for them to lounge, nap, and snug in.  Empty shoe boxes generally belong to Lego connoisseurs and homeless people.

5. Cat soaps.  Yes, I have cat soaps.  And yes, they are awesome.  But someone doesn't want to go clean up after sexytime with a cat shaped bar o' soap.

6.  Items of clothing for the cats to actually wear.  I think this one is pretty self explanatory.  Cat suspenders are generally never considered ok by the opposite sex.

7.  The giant steel mixing bowl that I leave on the floor for Chunk to nap in.

Some people are like "be who you are, Kira".  Listen, I am being who I am, just a little less openly creepy and obsessed.  And I feel like cat stuff overwhelming my condo is less creepy than like... snakes in cages all over.  Or Harry Potter paraphernalia. Or like 8790983745 Cabbage Patch dolls. Or One Direction wallpaper (although, I've admittedly considered this... pre 1D breakup).

And it's not my fault people think I'm amazing and like to send me cat presents.

KEEP 'EM COMING.

XOXO,

K

The Valentine's Day Hangover

There are two types of women in the world on February 15th.  The type that is well f*cked, watering her already half dead GMO roses (that probably came from King Soopers), and bragging to all her single coworkers about her new rose gold Cartier bracelet (I hate you).  And, the type that bitterly watched 50 Shades of Grey alone with at least 2+ cats, and is five pounds heavier from consuming large amounts of Chunky Monkey ice cream and Doritos.  High f*cking fives to both of you because both scenarios are awesome.

The latter can be caused by an inattentive boyfriend, booty call, or husband; but, it can also be caused by the perceived impending suffocation of spinsterhood.  I will never understand why women hate being single so much.   Buy yourself a damn Louis Vuitton, hop on Amazon, buy a great vibrator, and give yourself three orgasms... because we all know a guy isn't going to ever be able to top your personal O number.  For some reason, women continue to let men define them. Not to go all feminist Boulder on your asses, but go be a power bitch, get a degree, a great job, have sex with yourself, and buy your own awesome shit.

I'm not a Valentine's Day hater. I love Valentine's day.  I mean, it's an excuse to eat shit loads of candy, chocolate, and have sex with yourself like twice in one day (or someone else if available). Also, I'm a child, so my mom still gets me awesome gifts. But, women seem to turn to self-hate on Valentine's day if it isn't some perfect occasion that comes with chocolate unicorns, love poems, and french kisses. I totally get being disappointed if the turd you're sleeping with failed to remember the day completely.  But let's not crucify them for being men. I mean... they're men.  They have a hard enough time remembering your name, let alone a holiday (kidding... kind of).

Let's not expect mountains out of a species that think with their mole hills. Cut them some slack. Could you imagine if they were as crazy as we are? That wouldn't end well for anyone; homicides would probably increase by at least 10%. On the flip side of the coin, if they remembered and showered you with gifts, give them a sweet beej and then excuse yourself and your vibrator to the bathroom for some self-love.

Love yourself, betches. Never put that onus on someone else, it's not their job.  And if you don't make it their job you'll be way happier.

XOXO,
K

When He Doesn't Text

So I really ruined this whole dating blog thing by getting stuck on the first dude I went out with.  Fail, Kira.  Fail.  If you know me, you know I generally don't date anyone so this is clearly some sort of phenomenon likely attributed to astrology, magic, or the fact that men can smell my desperation and general long-term, accidental celibacy.

Anyway, we've been talking for a few months now and he is like so good at being kind, attentive, texting/calling frequently, and sating my inner crazy.  A few weeks ago, a solid 12 hours went by without a text and I quickly morphed from Mila Kunis in "Friends with Benefits"(cool, calm, totes hilar, and  a perfect mix of cute and sexy) into that alien in Independence Day that escapes that human body and kills the scientist by smushing him up against the wall. Code f*cking red.

This has happened to a few of my good friends lately, so I'm just going to compile a brief list of what goes through the mind of a woman when he doesn't text anywhere from an hour to a few days.

Last text: 8:51 am

9:04am:  "I'm so glad he didn't text like RIGHT back.  That reeks of desperation and I'm so independent. I'm not like even sure I'm actually ready for commitment.  My cats and work and crossfit and the eight cities of the Real Housewives take up a ton of time already."

9:30am: "I bet he appreciates that I'm like sups cool and low maintenance; hence why he's not texting me immediately back.  #girlnextdoor.  I'm so glad I'm not one of those crazy bitches that like HAS to have someone text them nonstop. That would be like... so annoying."

10:45am: "I should lingerie shop just in case... you know, to keep him interested.  Once he's seen THIS lingerie he will text every five minutes." Orders $4 lingerie from Yandy.com via a Facebook ad.  (I know so many of you have done this in the past six weeks... for the record, I support it.)

10:48am: Practices lingerie sexting poses.  It's all about the back arch and making sure you don't get a cat in the picture.  Also, make sure your custom cat portraits and cat stuffed animals aren't in the shot either. #thedevilisinthedetails

11:15am: "There are football games on; it's probably hard to text and watch football. The male brain can only handle so much at one time."

11:45am: Stands in front of mirror naked.  "Maybe it's because my right boob is more hefty than my left... ooh a zit!  I should pick it. OOH ANOTHER ONE!" Pokes love handles for 12 minutes to the rhythm of Jingle Bells.

12:03pm:  "Maybe I should sign up for Christianmingle.com. I'm feeling underappreciated.  It's so hard to find a smart, non-crazy, low maintenance girl like me; I am a f*cking CATCH."

12:05pm: "I AM TOO GOOD FOR MEN. Maybe I should try and like women." Sends sad face double chin SnapChat to 12 people.

12:06 - 2:47pm: Takes two hour pity nap with cats.  Wakes up in a puddle of drool with mouth guard halfway out of mouth.

2:53pm : Eats body weight in nachos. "The cheese is dairy free so I probably like burned calories chewing."

3:14pm: Regrets nachos so hard. Gives self a pep talk about why women are the superior gender.

3:16pm: A TEXT MESSAGE APPEARS... from my Mom.  DAMMIT MOM I AM SO BUSY. #psych

3:45pm: "It's probably my thighs.  I knew I should've squatted less in 2015."

4:19pm: Listens to Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me" on repeat 19 times.

6:45pm: Takes four pepto bismol in an effort to counteract irrational stress levels and the anti-caloric nacho feast.

7:05pm: Takes a bath and then partakes in some "calming" yoga while obsessively checking phone. Does not feel calm at all.

8:07pm: Puts on giant fleecy unicorn onesie because "MY SOULMATE WILL LOVE ME NO MATTER WHAT I WEAR TO BED" and pinterest searches "breakup quotes".

8:09pm: Prints out "If he doesn't love you at your worst then he doesn't deserve you at your best" graphic quote centered on a picture of the sun setting over a beach.

9:01pm: Begins final downward spiral into full blown crazy and starts watching a Lifetime movie "next to" a bottle of whiskey on the couch. Even sits through commercials. #lowpoint

9:34pm: TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED.  "Hey.  Skiing was great.  Just got home"

9:24:25pm: Return to normal-ish human and original Mila Kunis state.  Peel off my onesie, brush whiskey off my teeth, and ptfo because I'm exhausted as f*ck from being so batshit.

Listen, ladies.  In all seriousness.. let's pull ourselves together.  Put on a push-up bra and go to the local Whole Foods looking sexy AF.  My good friend, Olivia Pope, recently told me that women go immediately to self-hate when men are doing something they don't like.  F*ck that.  You do you, boo.  And if that means eating 4.7lbs of nachos and texting the guy you like before he texts you, just do it.  If he can't handle you initiating conversation, watching Lifetime movies all day, and dressing your cats up like furry American Girl dolls, he's probs not worth it.

Snugs, betches.

XOXO,

K