Welcome! Whether you came here by choice or just somehow randomly stumbled onto my page—my mission statement, if you can call it that, is to create a tiny, happy corner of the web where you can drop by for a few moments and be entertained, hopefully laugh, and of course, follow the ridiculous shenanigans of the Agents of Chaos. If you have followed me over from Facebook, I am well aware that the Agents of Chaos are the main attraction. And I get it. They are stupidly cute and entertaining, which is why they each have their own bios on the Home page. I know my audience.
But now that I have your attention, I will also be sharing weekly (hopefully) blogs, short stories, glimpses into my works in progress, and other random musings. I will also be highlighting the work of other authors, movies, tv shows, and/or products I love. I promise there will be no vag steaming eggs or other eye rolling Goop shit. I would love to hear from everyone in a robust comment section. I know that I have some of the funniest friends on the internet some of whom I met in the comment section on another website. My goal is to create a place where I can connect with people and post stories about the Agents of Chaos and the stupid things that happen to me—like the time mashed potatoes sent me to the Emergency Room. My own personal Facebook page, if you will, but with 100% less Zuckerberg, racists and Nazis.
A few things you should know about me. I’m a 54-year-old, single, child-free lawyer. I proudly wear the mantle of Crazy Cat Lady. I have more mumus than Mrs. Roper. I drink a lot of wine. A lot. I’m loud. I was once shushed at Harry’s Bar in Venice. I say fuck a lot. A lot. I’ve had my “fair share” and quite frankly a few other’s “fair share” of casual sex. In other words, I’m the kind of woman who gives Fox News and their viewers night terrors. So, I’m living my best life.
To be fair, I admit to having a moment of reflection as to whether there was something missing in my life. That moment came several years ago when a guy I was casually dating, texted for a booty call. Is it still a booty call when it’s the middle of the evening and not late at night? I was in my pajamas, watching Hell’s Kitchen, and had just put some fish sticks in the oven – don’t judge me, you don’t know my life … at least not yet. I’m not going to lie; it took me several minutes of boisterous internal debate running through a pros and cons list before I finally made my decision. Roughly an hour later, I thought to myself, “I should have chosen the fish sticks.”
You can live your best ho-life and then one day, ladies and gentlemen, you will find yourself choosing the fish sticks. And it’s in that exact moment in life that you realize what you need – what you are missing. You wake up filled with purpose and … you buy your first bird feeder.
When I think about it, I didn’t want to be a Disney Princess so that I could be saved by a man. No. What I really wanted was animal friends. Why stop at cats when there’s a whole forest of animals to befriend. It starts with one feeder and then another … the next thing you know, you’ve got a tiny picnic table specifically for the squirrels and chipmunks. You’ve got blue jays screaming at you if you hit snooze and breakfast is late. Your reputation on Forest Yelp spreads – mostly positive reviews (except for the blue jays who want to speak to the manager). Raccoons start knocking on your door for Meow Mix. Deer standing in the driveway and stare at you and suddenly you’re cutting up apples and asking politely if they would consider moving so that you can back out of the garage to leave the house. The answer is always no.
But unlike Cinderella, these cute little fuckers aren’t mopping my floor or making me dresses. Instead, they are sending me into puddles of tears while saving them from themselves. The chipmunk who repeatedly gets stuck adrift in the pool on the animal saver float. The pregnant squirrel that I found hanging upside down with her foot stuck in the Shepherd’s hook after eating all the sunflower seeds. The woodpecker that got its head stuck in the squirrel’s picnic table. I don’t remember seeing Snow White in the middle of a downpour, holding an umbrella with her chin, frantically trying to unscrew the longest screw known to man from a miniature picnic table, sobbing while singing “Soft Kitty” to a freaked out downy woodpecker.
Every morning, I sit in my yellow swivel chair, drink tea, and serenely watch the wildlife that I’ve summoned into my life. The Agents of Chaos look on obviously thinking “what the fuck? We spend all day trying to scare them off by losing our ever-loving shit at the window and you’re feeding them?” The betrayal. “And fuck that chipmunk, especially.”
And in those moments, I know without a doubt that the best advice I can ever give is “always choose the fish sticks.”
