So, this past Sunday, after a much needed nap, I peeled myself out of bed and drove in the waning light of dusk to my favorite place in the world (if we lived in a world of opposites).  Kroger.  If you’ve been following The Anomalous Life for any length of time, you know my fairly unhealthy dislike of grocery shopping…namely grocery shopping at the Kroger on West Gray.  You probably also know about my somewhat significant change in eating habits recently (to aid my struggling thyroid and, well, you know, because it’s not good to eat peanut butter and gummy worms four times a week).  Anyway, this new, healthy, organic, very adult regimen gratefully pulled me away from the “meat market” (and I don’t mean ground beef and chicken cutlets) aisles of Kroger into the (deep, fresh breath) heart-healthy pathways of Whole Foods.  I can’t say I necessarily looked forward to grocery shopping, but I no longer compared it to pulling out an abcessed tooth…without anesthetic…with rusty pliers.  You get the picture.

Whole Foods is great…but there’s only one problem.  It ain’t cheap.  And it doesn’t carry my little ladies’ favorite brand of kitty litter.  So, as fate would have it, the grocery store hater now has to make two stops…one being the pricey prima donna palace, and the other…the packed pick-up joint. 

Since Sunday night’s trip was driven mainly by my gals’ need for more than a centimeter of kitty litter, Kroger it was.  I did mention that it was a Sunday night, right?  The night which, in the West Gray grocery world, is on par with the grand opening of Hyde in LA or Pure in Vegas.  In short, parking spaces are scarce and tempers are short.  That’s why, when I saw a space up front that didn’t have a handicapped sign in front of it, I felt like this dreaded errand may not be so bad after all.  I pulled in, powered down my newly rebuilt Honda (that’s a story for another time), and stepped out with my head held high.  Not high enough, however, to miss the large handicapped sign painted on the ground beneath my car.  Shit!  I rush back to the Honda to get back in line behind the throngs of others vying for the limited spaces.  But in my rush…as I threw open the door and swung my body toward the driver’s seat, I miscalculated my height, and, well, I rammed my head, with remarkable force into the unforgiving metal - just below the outer edge of my right eyebrow.  Crack!  Literally, it made a noise…a loud noise…and I briefly saw stars, right before the searing pain set in.  I grabbed my face and slithered into my seat.

My first thought:  “Ouch…ouch…go away, pain.  Please, go far, far away…”

My second thought:  “My God, I have to go in this grocery store full of hip-dressed suitors, flashing solid proof (in their eyes, at least) that I am a victim of domestic abuse.”  I abhor you, Kroger.

The small goose egg hid itself fairly well under strategically placed makeup, although I constantly pulled out my compact mirror - sure that my damaged noggin would soon turn an uncoverable shade of black and blue.  Of course, fellow shoppers assumed I was checking myself out to ensure a “competitive edge” amongst the hords of single sassies.  When in reality, I was working to save myself from the looks of pity or passing suggestions for nearby ‘women’s centers’.  Had the scenario presented itself, I had a prepared rebuttal:

“I DON’T HAVE A DAMN HUSBAND…HELL, I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!”  That should shut ‘em up.  But folks want to believe the dramatic…they don’t want to hear about the unfortunate meeting of an innocent Honda door frame and a slightly accident prone lassie.  They want the dirt.  If it ain’t a husband or boyfriend, maybe it’s a jealous lesbian ex-girlfriend.  Yeah, there’s the dirt.

No matter…I picked up all the groceries before the growing bump became too noticeable and I raced out of the parking lot.  I needed Kroger in my rearview mirror - fast.  Kroger! (Newman!)  Argh!

Once home, I packed away all the groceries…all except a frozen bag of edamame which I carefully placed on my sensitive, swollen (that sounds risque) brow bone.  I’m two days out now, and still a bit painful to the touch.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe Whole Foods is worth every penny…maybe it’s time to switch the girls to organic, unscented litter.  Maybe…

I’ve been having the same dream since I was a little girl.  The stress dream.  What I had to be stressed about at eight years old, I have no idea…maybe I was upset about not getting that Ms. Pacman game at Christmas, or broken up about the stolen strawberry scratch-and-sniff sticker. As I got older, the dream came to visit when I was contemplating a break-up, or suffering through my latest bout of writer’s block (looming deadlines will do that to a girl).  But it’s always the same.  I’m in a strange house.  In the middle of a sprawling field.  And in the distance is a massive, swirling tornado.  I’m panicked.  It’s headed straight for me, and the width of this twisting cyclone is enough to blow away a whole town, much less my meager shelter.  I stare out two large bay windows…heart pounding…ready to be sucked up in its vast blackness and thrown halfway across the continent.  But somehow, when I’m feet from death’s door, it dissipates…disappears.  Poof…just like that.  Miraculously, I’ve been saved.  I’ve escaped the monster.  I slowly lower myself onto the floor until my breathing returns to normal.  And then I look up, only to find a string of twenty more tornados headed my way.  Sometimes I narrowly survive several more.  Other times the dream ends after the first near miss.  But always I wake up with a silent scream, pop up into a sitting position, eyes searching the dark room for any sign of a green, forboding sky.  It’s only when I see a startled cat careen from the bed that I realize where I am…and that I’m safe.

So why all the talk about stress dreams and leaping felines?  Because tonight, as I prepared a dinner of sauceless spaghetti noodles (so sue me, I haven’t been to the grocery store in awhile) and leftover Ziggy’s take-out salad, I heard the dreaded high-pitched beeping noise on the TV.  It was a weather alert.  Tornado Warning.  Not a Tornado “Watch”…a Tornado “Warning”.  What’s the difference?  Put it this way…if a “Watch” is Tiny Tim, then a “Warning” is, well, a lot bigger than Tiny Tim…like Hulk Hogan or Yao Ming (that one’s for you, Momma).  This, as you might imagine, does not sit well with the woman with lifelong tornado stress dreams.

I look out the window.  Nothing.  No rain.  A few clouds in the distance, but they look fairly harmless.  So, I stroll back to the kitchen to tend to my flavorless meal, and soon sit down to the anti-entertainment of a Wednesday night TV lineup (clearly I don’t have HBO).  Then I hear something.  A slight rumble in the distance.  My first reaction is to not react.  Ignorance is bliss.  But you know me better than that, don’t you dear readers?  It’s there.  In the back of my mind.  Sumthin’s this way-a-comin’.  I feel a slight flutter in my belly. Pawly whips her head to the side and leaps off the couch and out of the room.

“That can’t be good,” I think.  “Don’t animals have a sixth sense?”

I look out the window again.  The clouds in the distance aren’t so distant now…and are they taking on a green hue?  Oh God.  And look at the birds!  I think they’re panicking!  Sixth sense.  Oh, sweet Jesus, this is gonna be the big one.  I call Carol, my downstairs landlord.

“Did you see the weather alert?” I cry.

“Yes, but I think it’ll just be alot of rain,” she replies.

“But the alert said Tornado Warning…not a Watch…a Warning!  And have you seen that wall of clouds outside…behind the AIG building?  I think I see a tail coming down out of one!”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” She’s laughing.

“But are you outside…do you see it???”

“I’m downstairs on the porch…right below you,” she says.  Why is she so calm?  We could be moments away from a close-encounter with an F5!

“It looks really green, and it’s so calm…the calm before the storm!”  I’ve lost all rational thinking.  Carol is feet from me, but we’re still talking via the phone.  And she’s still laughing at me.

“You’ll be fine,” she chuckles.  “And if something forms, just get in your bathtub.”  She’s starting to believe it could happen…that’s not a good sign!  I picture myself in the confines of my cast iron tub, a cat under each arm, a comforter over my head. Maybe knocking back a cold Bud Light.  Right before the floor caves in and my tub lands on top of Carol and Leslie, huddled in their own tub in the apartment below.  It could happen.

The rain has started.  The sky is black.  There is no sign of a swirling cloud, but my mind creates some gyration (what a great word) in the cloud now directly above us.

“If I’m pounding on your door in the pouring rain and howling 300-mile-per-hour winds, please let me and my two pet carriers inside,” I say to Carol as I walk toward my back door.  She snickers again and heads for cover.

I hear the beeping again. Another weather alert.  Just “small stream flood advisories” now…nothing about a tornado. I can’t be calmed.  At one point they predicted Ike wouldn’t even enter the Gulf.  And we all know how that turned out.  The rain is pouring down now.  I go back to the couch and my untouched meal, turn up the volume and slide back into ‘ignorance is bliss’ mode.  A loud thunder clap.  The cats have leapt to the floor and hunkered down.  I look out the window.  The wind is whipping.  This is it.  I call Susan to warn her about the impending doom and bid her farewell.  She doesn’t answer.  It’s clear the tornado has already ripped through her side of town.  I’m alone.  The dream has become reality.  I grab my comforter and head toward the bathroom, but wait, what is that?  Silence?  Has the giant tornado sucked all the air out of sky? I slither to the window, and…nothing. Just some drizzle and a moderately clear sky.

I call Carol back.

“You alright?” I ask.  “You were pretty freaked out down there.”

“Unlike yourself?” she mocks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…just a little rainstorm…nothing to be worried about.”

“Uh huh,” she replies.  “By the way, did you see that huge tree roach?”

“WHERE! WHERE IS IT, CAROL!”

And more giggling.  Bitch.

Well, hello, my friends.  After a month of life in the dark abyss of book editing, I have once again joined the land of the living.  My nights are free…free to communicate with you, or take a ridiculously expensive trip to Whole Foods, or drink wine with friends, or watch the Olympics and late-night trash TV.  In short, I have my life back.  Outside of a lingering epilogue, the book is complete!  More than a year of toiling away is happily in my rearview mirror, and although the feeling of accomplishment is sweet, the feeling of relief outweighs it like the African elephant outweighs the American house flea.  I think I’ve made my point.

I hope you’ve missed me, because I have missed you dearly. Spending time with a bossy salamander, a goofy frog and a crabby dragonfly begins to wear on a girl. I need my adult time. I need to talk about disappointing or extremely hot men, the latest fashion find, the effects of cats on your social life and why my hair always looks better on Wednesdays. It’s an odd thing. But midweek is quickly approaching, and I need a social outlet to show off the hump day hair anomaly. Pass on any ideas, Houston ladies…my ears are open.

I also have big cell phone news. I got a new one this past weekend, and if it’s possible to love an inanimate object, I, my dear readers, am smitten.  The clear, colorful touch screen; the soft yet authoritative key tones; the full keyboard - perfect for further intensifying my obsession with text messaging; but most important is what my LG Voyager is not: my former nemesis - the very stylish, but nervous breakdown-inducing LG Chocolate. Die, Chocolate…die. I will forever loathe you and curse your memory. It is time to surrender. You have been exiled to the junk drawer…never to be seen or heard from again. More stress off my back. I am practically floating.

I know I’m all over the board tonight, but we’ve so much to talk about. Did you see the men (including Michael Phelps) win the free medley last night? How did your heart handle that last stretch?  It was pumping pretty good, wasn’t it? And when they won “by a fingertip”, did you scream like a little girl? My mother, who was sitting next to me, may have broken my eardrum. But I didn’t care. Because I broke hers, too.  And then we jumped up and down, grabbed each other’s hands, and pumped them in the air. If I could have stepped on a makeshift podium, I would have done that as well.  I’m just saying. (See pics of the sweet moment of victory here: http://www.nbcolympics.com/swimming/photos/galleryid=194011.html.)

After my blood pressure returned to normal, I walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom. Why? Because my parents were leaving for an Alaskan cruise in the morning (I know…I, too, despise them), and I was volunteered to take them to the airport for their very early morning flight. Now, I’m not sure if your father stresses about traveling, but I honestly believe mine does so at a level that prohibits him from fully enjoying a vacation. Their ship just pulled out of Vancouver a few hours ago - headed for breathtaking glaciers, whale watching and salmon dishes galore. And when my father goes to sleep tonight, on the front end of this once-in-a-lifetime trip, he will sleep fitfully - worried sick that they will miss their connection in the Minneapolis airport on the way back home. Or he will drink enough beer and wine to let it go and throw caution to the wind. I’m sending good vibes your way, Daddy. Let it be, Daddy. Let it be.

I must take my leave now. Michael Phelps’ next race is approaching, and I need to lubricate my throat before the shrieking begins. Unsuspecting cats will be leaping from the couch, I know this to be. And I’m giggling in anticipation.

Thank you for your patience these past few weeks. You will be handsomely rewarded. Someday. Probably not by me personally, but does that really matter?

Oh, boy.  I’ve got to be honest with you.  I’ve really struggled with the decision to discuss this particular topic…it is, after all, a hotbed for controversy.  The mere mention of this word, this thing, often sparks heated debate between men and women.  It (unfairly, I believe) pits independence against loyalty, and in extreme cases, good against evil.  And most importantly, the love of this controversial creature often perpetuates an ignorant stereotype.

Am I speaking of devout Christians and their love of Jesus Christ?  Well, no, although I’m sure many Christian women have argued my fiery topic with many a Christian man.  Am I recklessly sticking my toe into the choppy waters of today’s great political race?  Uh uh.  But something tells me this discussion would divide Barack and Hillary like no other issue has.

So, what is it, you ask?  Get to the point, Nikki, before I hit the back button and return to Perez Hilton.

 Fair enough.  Here goes…I will now speak write the words that I’ve often held back on first dates, or even second or third:  I, Nikki Wynn, am a cat owner.  And I am proud of it.  I’m sorry to have held this information back for, what, going on five/six posts now…but I needed you to adore me for who I am, not what I love.  Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?  You know why?  BECAUSE IT IS!  Less than ten years ago, this admission did not strike horror in the hearts of potential suitors, or illicit not-so-carefully hidden looks of pity from smug marrieds.  But the passing of twenty-four hours, just twenty-four measly hours - from October 24, 2000 to October 25, 2000 - was all it took.  That was the day I turned thirty and suddenly became the creepy, old woman who lived in a shoe house full of cats. 

Let me clarify, I have two cats…not twenty.  I refuse to have just one (the guilt of an animal home alone would tear at my very soul).  I have two…have never had more and probably never will.  Although it’s possible I’ll add a dog or two to the mix at some point.  Why?  Because I LOVE ANIMALS!  I grew up surrounded by them.  We may have lived in the classic confines of suburbia, but there was a veritable menagerie behind our doors:  cats, dogs, hamsters, wounded Blue Jays, crawdads, lizards, newts, tadpoles/frogs and the occasional box turtle.  I loved them all.  Black, white, red or blue…I didn’t care…I was an equal-opportunity animal whisperer.  This is tough for me to conjure up, but I will do it for you, dear reader:  One of my most horrifying childhood memories was the day I had to hand over the stray puppy I’d found at a Friday night high school football game (we named him “Lucky”, of course).  Much to my dismay, my evil parents had posted “Found Puppy” signs in and around the stadium, and Lucky’s thankful owners were soon located.  They showed up at our door with a plate full of cookies and a sad lesson…apparently I wasn’t Noah, I didn’t have an ark and I couldn’t have two of each.  I have one big, fat sweet tooth, but I didn’t eat one of those damn cookies…not one.

Alright, let’s get back to the issue at hand:  women and cats…or more precisely, women over thirty and cats.  I do realize there are men out there who adore felines, and I salute them and their blessed hearts - but for the sake of a clear cut argument, let’s stick to the majority.  Most men “claim” to abhor the “furry, distant, boring” creatures (their words, not mine).  In my experience, at least, these men have never owned nor spent more than fifteen minutes in the presence of these “independent to a fault” animals.  Barring severe allergies or a violent childhood attack, this loathing is ill-conceived at best.  Sweeping generalizations often accompany their hatred and the phrases “they just don’t give a shit if you’re there or not” or “they have no loyalty to their owners” are often tossed around like confetti, albeit with much less fanfare.

I work from home.  I am around my two not-so-slender gatos (Bella and Pawly) most hours of the day…and night.  To call these girls independent would be like calling Eliot Spitzer faithful.  I have a cat underfoot at every moment…and I have the bruises to prove it.  I am awakened by the freakishly large, Bella, every morning.  She slowly, and methodically, walks over my ribcage to rest in front of my face.  She then stares at me with an intensity that drives my tired ass to insanity.  When I ignore her, she slowly, and methodically, walks again across my ribcage, paws at my back and repeats the process until I angrily toss the covers aside and exit the bed.  She then leaps underfoot, looks up at me and, I kid you not, I think the little bitch smiles.  Occasionally annoying?  Yes.  Independent?  Not even close.  In fact, as I type this in my bed, late night, Pawly slumbers on the pillow next to me - one paw on my shoulder - and Bella, well she’s a foot away, flat on her back, and yes, staring at me.  Because that’s what she does best.  That and fetching.  Yes, she fetches.  Did I just dispel another myth?  Well, looky there.

There is something interesting that happens when a man falls for a woman with cats.  His long-held beliefs about the little furballs and their complete uselessness, begin to change.  It’s subtle at first, and certainly not revealed to his male counterparts, but the change it is a’comin’.  And how do I know this?  I’ve lived it…first-hand.  Every single serious relationship I’ve had started with a man who “didn’t much care for cats” and ended with his complete and total devotion.  And because men can be a bit, well, hard-headed (we’re not talking about me right now), acceptance of this growing love was often accompanied by a caveat.  A caveat I heard time and time again. It went something like this:  “I really don’t like cats…but I do like yours.  They’ve got real personality…they’re funny and affectionate and devoted.  They’re just different.”  Now, mind you, I’ve had a number of cats over the years…these men didn’t all know the two I currently share my home with.  The sad reality of animals is, their lifespans are far too short, and if you love them and live long enough, you will have to say a tearful goodbye to far too many.  So, some of my past loves knew Ceasar, others knew Pawly and Sterling, and the latest knew Pawly and the nightmare/dream that is Bella.  But the caveat remained the same:  “Yours are different.”  Each time, I held my tongue and forced a smile.  But I wanted to shout to the heavens:  “THEY’RE ALL DIFFERENT, YOU FOOL!  THEY ALL HAVE PERSONALITIES!  YOU LIKE THEM BECAUSE, AGAINST YOUR BETTER JUDGMENT, YOU LIKE CATS!  YOU ARE A CAT LOVER!”  (insert evil laugh)

I could bore you with my own stories and those of my sister and friends…examples of men obsessing over the best caretaking techniques, the proper food for healthy kidneys and long life, and the shelling out of thousands of dollars to keep their now precious felines alive for just a bit longer.   I could describe the men who came to love their adopted cats with a passion that is sometimes, unbelievably, unmatched by the women they met them through…but I will not ramble on, for fear that I will lose you to another blog, or (egads) work.  I will just say this.  Open your minds, my masculine friends.  Do not write off the thirty-something single woman…the one with the quick wit, great legs, informed brain and kind heart - simply because she utters the awful words:  “I have a cat.”  Because here’s the truth - when you whittle it down - I think you can put humans into two categories:  not cat or dog lovers…it’s much more basic than that…it’s those who love animals and those who don’t.  Which do you believe are more compassionate, more responsible, more loving…and who else can bring to you their love with a bonus or two.  Give it a shot.  You won’t regret it.

I must leave you now.  Bella is opening a cabinet, eating a piece of toilet paper, and batting about some toxic cleaning fluid in hopes of stealing my attention away from the computer.  Aloof and independent.  Yeah.  Right.