Not too terribly long ago my lovely husband (and internet media pusher extraordinaire) shared with me a thought he had. A feeling if you will. A feeling in direct opposition with my own (for reasons I will soon detail for you).
He thinks that my broadcasting a live internet show in our studio for 90 minutes each week is not enough. All fine and good… because then we added to my weekly show “to do list” and I’m now doing a second weekly podcast (though it isn’t streamed live) with Rick Turoczy called memePDX.
Still what Mike would like to see is a stream of me going about my daily business. To and fro hither and yon. Doing the dishes, laundry, sitting behind my computer, I suppose. He thinks (because he is not here to see it) that my daily life must be something that would be fascinating to people.
I think that I hate reality TV. Also, I think that I’m home by myself 5 1/2 hours a day. That’s boring stuff. Unless you consider that I talk to myself A LOT and do stupid and embarrassing things for those 5 1/2 hours. Oh and I shower. I will now do the unthinkable. The horrible. The unimaginable. I’ll tell you what I did today…
As I was doing the dishes quietly and minding my own business I heard a tussle in the living room. A loud plasticy crinkly tussle. Like 6 elephants wearing raincoats in a mosh pit. So I go into the living room only to find my black cat has found the ziploc bag we keep his valerian catnip pillow in and is trying to wrestle it open to get to his precious yellow nip pouch.
I open it up and give him his beloved stinky nip and head back to the dishes in the sink. Then I hear a loud furry tussle and run back into the room only to discover he has body slammed his nip pillow and is rubbing his whole body on the thing ecstatically as if to cover his fur in the cat drug so he can have that catnip fresh feeling all day. My other cat who does not partake of the nip (He listened to Nancy Reagan. He just says no.) is staring at him like he’s a fucking idiot.
As I walk from the room allowing the cats to be cats I begin to sing a made up punk song called “Catnip Junkie” Something like catnip junkie he’s a fool, catnip junkie goes to school, catnip junkie breaks all the rules… he’s a…. he’s a… he’s a CATNIP JUNKIE!!! Then I do a little dance around the dining room table that resembles the pogo and some sort of seizure before screaming “DON’T DO DRUGS”.
My cats? Ignore me like nothing unusual is happening because truth be told if I don’t break out into a punk song and dance like an idiot at least once a day then I’m probably still in bed.
And that is why I don’t have a webcam following me around the house all day. You couldn’t handle it.