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My nation is a procrasti-nation.

March 21, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 4 Comments

My entire life has been defined by continual instances of procrastination. Whether it was college, law school, my job, or even most recently, wedding tasks, I likely would leave them ’til the eleventh hour.

When I had a paper due in college on a certain date, I likely would have started it the night before. I wouldn’t proofread, I would hustle, hustle, hustle and print it out, thinking, “DONE.”  Finals in college meant going to my professor’s dinner party in his fancy house, drinking his wine, THEN I would go home and study. In college, this worked out fine. I graduated magna cum laude. I attempted a similar tactic in law school. Sadly, it turned out that procrastination wasn’t really effective when the professors usually grade you based on one final exam that comprises of an entire semester of reading.

I figured it out, procrastinated less and still…eked out mediocre grades. Needless to say, I did not graduate magna cum laude from law school. My procrastination meant that my first attempt at submitting my law review case note for evaluation, hoping to have it deemed “publishable quality,” was a shoddy and half-hearted attempt. Naturally, my first attempt was shot down. I know I procrastinated for my second attempt, but it was way more intense. For two weeks before it was due with massive efforts at research, footnotes and writing being my life for two weeks before it was due. This time? Success. AND publication.

Of course, these life lessons in “why you shouldn’t procrastinate” never have stuck. I still scramble to get motions and answers on file by the deadline. Such is my life. Most lawyers will probably admit to procrastinating once in awhile, if not often. I don’t think that this quality makes me unique.

My point? Well, in planning a wedding in a short amount of time, procrastination is not an option. I mean, it is, but you’ll really screw up your plans. In any event, I have mostly been staying on top of everything. It’s really a Christmas miracle, if you think about it. The procrastination queen is not procrastinating.

One of my good friends is a fabulous graphic designer, and she created our invitations that really inspired my decor and atmosphere for the entire wedding. She dropped them off at our house the other night and I went to work. By that night, I had nearly cut them all out with my new and nifty paper cutter. The next night? I had finished cutting them out and addressed almost all of them. Yesterday, I went to the post office (got the sullen POST OFFICE WORKER to be nice to me…another Christmas miracle), got our stamps and finished the invitations. Did you HEAR that? With my fiance’s assistance, I finished them in two days. The next morning, they went in the mailbox.

I assume this lack of procrastination must mean that I am ready to get married. I really am.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a motion due tomorrow that I haven’t started. You didn’t expect me to be completely reformed, did you?

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Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia

Characters of a city…and being called the “b-word.”

March 3, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 7 Comments

Each large city has its own cast of characters. From our rather sensational political scene to the everyday people that roam the streets, Chicago is no exception. We have our mayor-elect Rahm Emanuel as well as our very own expletive-laden @MayorEmanuel. We also have our friendly Streetwise vendors and the guy that panhandles at the Subway and calls you names if you don’t purchase his requested food stuffs. This morning, as I waited for my blue chariot (also known as the blue line), I began to think more of these everyday characters.

There is the preaching man that nearly always rides in the very first car on the blue line around the same time as I do each morning. He wears a crudely fashioned crown, blue jeans always ironed with a sharp crease on the front. Each day, he sits patiently waiting as we approach our stop (Clark and Lake). As we leave the Grand station, he stands up, gathers his worn sandwich board and begins preaching. He doesn’t talk about God, or Jesus, or at least not that I’ve heard. He preaches about the government, and people taking your money, and not letting people making you feel “stupid.” (He always puts extra emphasis on the word “stupid.”) When the train pulls into Clark and Lake, he moves toward the front of the doors. When the train doors open, he sprints up the escalator to wherever he perches for the day.

There is also the guy hocking Streetwise occasionally on the corner of Lake and LaSalle who uses the same lines on the ladies day after day. He likes to come up to me and says, “Do you know what your smile is like?” I always respond with a “What?” He invariably response with, “It’s like a spring flower.” I tend to play along, but there was one day when my boyfriend was accompanying me down the street. The Streetwise man approached me and gave me the old, “You know what your smile is like?” line. My boyfriend, having heard this line before (and also having a bit less patience than I) responded FOR him. “Yeah, yeah. We know. It’s like a spring flower.” I’m fairly certain that that guy called my boyfriend the male version of the b-word.

There is also the rather mean homeless man that occasionally stands by the blue line entrance at the opposite end, not only panhandling, but also requesting specific Subway sandwiches if you appear to be entering the nearby Subway. I walked by him one day on my way to Subway for lunch. As I passed him, he says to me, “Hey lady. Get me a meatball sub? Extra olives.” I chuckled then promptly forgot about him as I waited in line. I left the Subway, my sandwich in tow, when I walked by the man again. I quickly realized that he was dead serious. “Where’s my sandwich?” he demanded. “Um, sorry, guy, I forgot.” I did feel guilty about it for a minute until he screamed after me, “BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!” I hate that guy. I don’t think I have been back to that particular Subway since.

I am pretty sure that if @MayorEmanuel called me a b-word, it might make my day. I suppose that’s just how I roll. Some characters can pull off the profanity and make it funny, while some characters are the villains. And there are so many characters, funny men and ladies to those rather nasty villains. One thing is for certain, these characters paint our Chicago a colorful one, and one that I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

I was once an inventor.

February 17, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 6 Comments

As a young lady, I was an avid reader. I would sneak my book under my desk in math class to read rather than pay attention. (As an aside, one book stands out to me: House on Hackman’s Hill, anyone? Now that was a page turner involving a mummy with the head of a jackal. It really doesn’t get much better than that.) I would read as late into the night as my parents would sleep (usually undetected, but I would get the occasional scolding for staying up past my bedtime). Because much of my reading was done in bed, a reading lamp was essential. I had one of those “clip onto the headboard” thingies that would enable me to have direct light on my book at the head of my bed. The one problem with this lamp was that the shade was made of metal. Left on for any length of time, it became quite hot. Any touch of it would sear my skin. It was not pretty.

One year, one of our class projects (I cannot for the life of me remember which class) was to come up with an invention. The constant burning of my skin due to late nights spent reading and my inability to fall asleep timely created the best idea for me: I would make a cover for my lamp. No more exposed metal and no more burns. I was truly brilliant, or so I believed.

My mom found some fabric for me and helped me sew the cover for the small lamp. Blue and fuzzy, leftover from some craft project, I’m certain that cover my mother and I so diligently crafted was a fire hazard. But me? I had that part covered. The blue fuzzy version was just a model. My actual invention would be of a fire-proof cloth. The specs indicated that my lamp cover would be crafted out of asbestos. To me, that was a brilliant touch. In my defense, as a 10-year-old, I had no idea that asbestos would cause cancer. How could I know that there would be millions of dollars invested in removing this material from buildings? Could I be expected to foresee that there would be billions of dollars sought for injuries sustained from this fire-proof material. No. I only knew it as a fire-proof material. Again, as a 10-year-old, this detail made my invention particularly efficient and practical.

Additionally, my dad always instilled in me a great fear of house fires. We had to ensure that every potential fire hazard was eliminated before we left the house. Toaster? Unplugged. Hair dryer? Unplugged. Clearly, my invention must be similarly conscientious of this fire hazard aware family in which I lived. Sadly, I did not get a patent for this invention. I used my blue, fuzzy lamp cover (that was not made of the approved asbestos material in my invention specs) unknown to my dad for awhile until I did realized it would get very hot as well. I threw it away eventually. Well, truthfully, my mom probably threw it away. Along with my bookworm-like tendencies, I also was a hoarder.

Let it be known that, to this day, my hair dryer gets unplugged every time I leave the house. I might not put it away, Dad, but it is most definitely unplugged. This is proof that I would listen to my parents occasionally. I still, however, can occasionally be found with a book under my desk. Some things never change.

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Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Rage against the (wedding) machine.

January 20, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 5 Comments

I am a member of the newly engaged. Yes, I was one of the thirty-seven people on your facebook friend list changing my status after the holidays. Right before Christmas, my handsome man got down on one knee and bestowed me with some bling. While I did not start sobbing, the moment was very special. We celebrated with champagne, wine and an expertly-cooked pork tenderloin.

The reality of the whole wedding planning set in soon after that. Not even a month after that snowy December evening, I am realizing the various stages of being engaged.

Of course, the first stage is utter excitement and wonder. I finally get to be the bride. My friends? Those girls better get ready to don some floor-length taffeta and FIGHT TO CATCH MY BOUQUET. People get to buy me fancy kitchen gadgets. Cuisinart food processor, come to mama! Buying bridal magazines is fun! Yay for weddings!

The next stage is the feeling of being completely overwhelmed. How will I pay for this wedding? How do I get everything done? When am I supposed to get married? Who will be my bridesmaids? Do I even WANT bridesmaids? What if no one gets me my Cuisinart? The questions just do not stop.

That overwhelming feeling has since turned into a state of anxiety. In fact, just last night I had a dream that I had forgotten to bring my wedding dress to the venue. (As an aside, who else besides brides-to-be and party planners use the word “venue” in daily conversation? Seriously.)  What if people don’t like the wedding? Am I doing it right? What about all of these etiquette rules?

I feel all of these things at various parts of the day. One constant emotion that seems to be ever-present throughout this whole wedding process is my general rage at the whole wedding machine. Theknot.com has infiltrated my life to the point where their “Make your wedding unique!” emails are now delivered directly to my spam mailbox. While I want to wear the white dress and eat cake and drink champagne as much as the next girl, I refuse to go into debt to do so. Something tells me there is something wrong with the world when the sample “budget” weddings are $25,000. That is ludicrous.

One might think that a girl like me might say, “Screw it!” and choose to elope. I considered it, I really did. However, upon careful reflection, I decided that I do want to say those vows in front of my family and friends. So have a wedding? We shall. I am not spending $25,000, though. Screw THAT. Oh, and the bouquet toss? Not doing that either. Save the dates? Emailed out. Sorry, Emily Post, I feel you judging me from there. Regardless of whether I choose to make my wedding by the so-called appropriate standards or not, I will be married in less than four months. That’s the name of the game, right? Not color-scheming or keeping up with the Joneses, but marrying “the one.”  Consider it done. Sans theknot.com. (Oh, but with the Cuisinart. I really do dream of that food processor.)

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Filed Under: Misc, Opinion Tagged With: , , , , ,

Is it time for a cocktail?

January 3, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 16 Comments

Growing up, I knew cocktail hour was always at 5:30 p.m. sharp. No, I wasn’t drinking as a child, but that’s when my grandparents would have their cocktails. My grandpa would get home from work at 5:30 at which point both he and my grandma would have their respective drinks. For him? Dry gin martini, rocks, with a lemon twist. For her? As long as I could remember, it was a glass of chardonnay. (Apparently back in the day, Grandma fancied a scotch on the rocks. I think this officially makes her a bad ass. As a result of that, I have bad ass in my blood. I always knew that, though.) After my grandpa retired, cocktail hour got progressively earlier in their house. I believe it is well-settled that my grandpa can have his one (yes, he only gets one) martini at 3:30 p.m. now. My grandma will drink her chardonnay. Well, unless I have brought her some Charles Shaw. She loves that Two-Buck Chuck Merlot like nobody’s business.

It is from this background that I can make the very solemn and serious proclamation: I love a nice cocktail. I also love the resurgence of restaurants and bars going back to the classic cocktails. Whether it is a Manhattan made with cherry-infused bourbon or a Moscow Mule made with house-brewed ginger syrup (word to you, Violet Hour), I love the twists on the classic cocktails. Sadly, I cannot often afford the $14 per cocktail (again, word to YOU, Violet Hour).

Therefore, I will make another proclamation, one that is just as serious and solemn as my first: 2011 will be the year that I become master bartender in my house. No one will make a better martini than I. James-freaking-Bond will want to stop by for a night-cap. My handsome partner will love me for my Manhattans (bourbon, rocks, extra cherries) that I lovingly prepare for him on a cold winter’s evening. My dad will have to give me his killer recipe for the best Grasshoppers in the world (seriously, ice cream AND liquor? That has win all over it.) so that I might conquer that spectrum of the cocktail world. You name the classic cocktail, by the end of the year, I shall be able to make it for you.

Pardon me, I have some practicing to do. Now, if I can only find some willing guinea pigs. Send ‘em my way, will you?

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Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

A message from a professional fun person

December 23, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 2 Comments

Almost as prevalent as the “What are your plans for the holidays?” queries are the “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” questions. The most wonderful time of the year? Maybe for some, but for some, this question can stress one out. I can count on one finger the number of New Year’s Eves I have spent out of my home. Sadly, that year ended with me being unable to get a taxi when the bar closed, an episode of relief in an alley and a stern lecture by my clearly lacking-in-fun boyfriend at the time for said alley relief. (Seriously, YOU try drinking in four hours at an open bar, then forgetting to use the facilities before you leave, and then not being able to snag a ride home. What would you do?) The night was actually pretty great before I was given the various reasons why it was a poor life decision to relieve myself in an alley.

The several years after that were the lamest of the bunch. There was the year I broke up with my boyfriend and New Year’s Eve ended up being a long and tearful goodbye. The following two years I spent with the person who may have been the least fun person on the planet in the middle of two probably identical fights. (The boyfriend before that called peeing in an alley a bad life decision? Too bad he didn’t stick around to see the next few poor life decisions.) Needless to say, I went through a life change shortly after that in which I chose to kick all fun-haters to the curb. It wasn’t even a New Year’s Resolution. Nope. It was a good old-fashioned “wake-up call.”

The most fun I have had since the alley-relief evening was a house party two years ago followed by a Lost-watching marathon last year stopped only at midnight to toast with champagne and a smooch. We were back to the “Others” by 12:02 a.m.

New Year’s Eve tends to be a great let-down for most people. Amateur hour, as some folks affectionately refer to the evening. You see, professional fun people (such as myself), we can go out and have fun on the town whenever we want. We don’t have to wait for one night a year. EVERY night is going to be fun for us. However, I forget sometimes, that not everyone is a professional fun person like myself. Not everyone will drink champagne on a Monday evening because they like the tingles on their tongue. (I LOVE the tingles.)

I suppose I should get to the point here. Obviously, I know how to have a good time. I know that a bottle  (or many bottles) of champagne and my myriad of beautiful friends and handsome boyfriend will make any evening worth having. Sadly, the pressure that is put on us for one night, New Year’s Eve, can make us abandon what we think is fun and try to fit into the “all you can drink” party fun mode. If staying home in your pajamas and having a movie marathon with some good food and good company is your fun, then do it. To adapt a little Forest Gump-ism, I will say this: Fun is as fun does. Perhaps you don’t think lots of champagne is fun (I call that sacrilege, but that is only one person’s opinion.) If going to bed early so you can participate in a New Years Day 5K is your thing, then by all means: DO YOUR THING. Honestly, it really is just another night. Ignore pressure, do what you think is fun. Me? I’ll be drinking champagne and kissing one very cute boy at midnight. Well, only if he behaves.

Clearly, I know what’s fun for me. Obviously. I am a professional fun person, after all.

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Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Opinion Tagged With: , , , ,

In lieu of a tip, might I wear your hair?

December 2, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 8 Comments

The other night, my boyfriend and I were out to dinner at a lovely local Italian restaurant. We dined on an assortment of bruschetta (pronounced brus-KETTA, as an angry Florentine waiter once corrected me), a delicious pizza and lots of wine. Date nights are always lovely with him. We talked about life, our jobs, our upcoming vacation and the usual date-night topics.

We also discussed our server’s hair.

I feel as though when I make a statement abut how my boyfriend and I discuss someone else’s hair, the record comes to a resounding screech and everyone looks at me. Alas, it is true. My boyfriend and I had an in-depth discussion about our server’s glorious curly hair. At the end of the conversation, my boyfriend informed I was a total creep.

The real truth is that I, a straight-haired lass, have always envied my curly-haired counterparts. Like many women, I envy those locks I do not possess. I imagine that I can just swap scalps and place that head of bouncy curls onto my head. You got a head full of long, wavy locks? I want it. How about a beautiful natural Afro? I would love that too. Basically, I will lust after anything that departs from my boring, straight blond locks.

I was born with stick-straight blond hair. When I was young, my hair was thin and fine. Of course, my mother found it prudent to keep it in line with a darling little bob cut. Sadly, even back then, I wanted nothing more than long, lustrous locks. Curls weren’t so much my desire as real length and thickness of a mane. Curls would be the icing on my green-with-envy girlish wants. My bob with bangs was not the look for which I longed. For that bob, I was certain that my mom was the meanest mom in all the land. Of course I have realized that her keeping my hair cut shorter was not a punishment. I was quite darling like that, I can now see.

In order to appease my envious and occasionally downright bratty soul, she would attempt to curl my fine crop with her trusty curling iron. Of course, within an hour, it was flat as a pancake. As an adolescent, I would spend hours of my day wrapping my straight locks around hot rollers, then furiously spraying those curls into place. Sadly, unless it was a dance competition and I was spraying the ‘do in its high pony-tailed and scrunchied glory, I was left with limp, over-sprayed hair and a head full of tangles by lunch time.

Over the years, my hair has gotten not only darker (high five if you’re rocking the dirty blond look these days too) but also thicker. Sadly, time has not produced any sort of glorious curls on my head. I now have a dirty blond color with some semblance of waves and cowlicks that prevent me from rocking any blunt bang look look. Bobby pins are my best friend. So is dry shampoo, but that is another story for another day. However, I still long after curls as evidenced by my recent date.

In my defense, our server that evening had the most gorgeous, lustrous curly mane. Her hair was so lovely, even my boyfriend commented to her about its level of gorgeousness. I nearly asked her if she’d consider trading scalps for a bit with me. What? Doesn’t everyone talk about propositioning other people for a scalp trade? Hello?

My boyfriend was right, I am a creep.

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Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Style Tagged With: , , , ,

I guess I am making the turkey.

November 21, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 15 Comments
There has been a recent development in my life: I have started cooking. Tightening pants and a rapidly depleting bank account have led me to reevaluate my effort in trying every single restaurant within Chicago city limits. Therefore, about a year ago, I decided to put away the takeout menus and dust off my Betty Crocker cookbook. Betty, myself and copious amounts of wine were going to tango.

I have always known that I enjoy making a tremendous mess out of my kitchen (or my mother’s). Ask my mom about the time I coated her entire kitchen floor with a thin layer of icing when my best friend and I made Christmas cookies. It was pretty gross. Then again, I believe that as a teenager, I shouldn’t be fully responsible for clumsy drips of frosting on the floor. I probably had a boy problem and the icing was my way to express myself. Lately I have really been exploring that mess-making skill in my own kitchen. I have tackled risotto, pork tenderloin, beef tenderloin, a roast chicken and various other items that make me drool from the online recipe websites. All turned out pretty well, aside from red wine turning the pork a rather disturbing shade of pink and not realizing exactly which side of the chicken was the breast side. (I roasted it upside down.)

The other day, I was presented what will certainly be my most challenging culinary feat. My friends have nominated me to make the turkey for our Thanksgiving meal since I tend to be the person most willing to screw things up in the kitchen. Cue the Internet search engines. Common searches so far include: “how to roast a turkey,” “how big of a turkey do I get to feed eight people” and “best pizza place in Chicago for delivery.” (That last search? A total lie. I already know the answer to that.)

The pressure is on.

The questions now buzz in my brain as I try to fall asleep at night. Do I go fresh, or do I buy frozen? Do I butter rub, dry rub or brine the bird? How early do I need to start cooking? Do I put the stuffing in the turkey, or cook it on the stove? What do I do with the giblets? Do people other than my grandfather and father actually eat the heart and the liver of the turkey? They swear up and down that I used to enjoy those “delicacies” when I was a small child. I think they are lying about particular bit of my history.) What if I decide to name the turkey Tom and then feel guilty about cooking and eating him?

We have all seen those movies where someone screws up the turkey at the big family meal. We know what happens. The offended poultry remains on the table as the entire family sadly sips their wine from their fancy goblets and picks at the side dishes. They look so sad. No turkey for Thanksgiving might be the greatest first world problem on the horizon right now. I just do not want to be that girl. No sadness at my table is allowed. We will have a little turkey with our wine.

If all goes wrong, I have a plan: We will order a pizza. No one will go hungry at MY table. While I will never be the next Stephanie Izard (bless that girl and her delicious goat), I will still attempt to cook for my friends and family and make a mean mess in the kitchen. Just call me Fabulously Crocker. Or Betty Awkward. Take your pick. I have my fingers crossed that Tom the Turkey will deliver on Thanksgiving day.

Turkey the Tom photo credit to blackberryrocks.com
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Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia Tagged With: , ,

Fall is more than a trip to the pumpkin patch.

November 1, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 4 Comments

It would be rather difficult to ignore this time of year. The leaves are turning colors more burnt orange, more goldenrod and definitely more brilliant than any crayon. The smell of bonfires and the chill in your cheeks seem to pervade your senses the instant you walk outdoors. Plans are made to visit the nearby apple orchards where cider donuts are available by the dozen. Pumpkins adorn every other doorstep in the neighborhood along with spooky Halloween decor. Light sweaters are pulled out of storage along with caramel-colored tall boots and scarves.  We order Pumpkin Spice Lattes with reckless abandon.

Sigh. Election season, right? Oh. You thought I was talking about autumn. My bad.

As November 2, 2010 draws near, campaigning begins to assault all of our senses. Morning news is no longer a way to check weather, traffic or pertinent local stories. It becomes a mess of increasingly nasty advertisements aimed at pointing out every little flaw of the “other guy.” Cell phones go off all day, ringing with volunteers asking, “Can I count on your vote?” or “Will you be participating in early voting this year?” Other campaign volunteers have papered local storefronts with posters not-so-subtly reminding anyone passing by that “Joe Election” is running for governor.

While I do understand the need for campaigns, I feel that each year I get more and more confused as to who would best represent my needs, or even better, the needs of our community. However, this year I am quite clear which candidate lied about being in the military and which candidate wants to mess with some senior citizen’s social security.

While I fully intend to exercise my civic duty and vote (“Yes, Victor Volunteer, I will be participating in early voting”), I feel that campaigning has gotten out of hand. Gone are the public declarations of making our city, our state or even our nation a better place for us to live. The candidates would rather smear their opponents in public. At this point, I’m at a loss of who will be the person person for the job, no matter the political party. I am having a difficult time deciding which name to touch on my touchscreen ballot. Decisions, decisions.

Perhaps I will get into my little booth and say, “Screw it, I’m writing in candidates!” Maybe I  will vote for the gentleman I saw outside the courthouse this morning wearing his finest white suit topped with a black tank top. Not just any tank top, this one was snugly fit and adorned with an ironed-on photograph of him near his bike imploring you to write-in his name for Governor. One must admit, this is an intriguing marketing campaign (maybe even more so given Illinois’ track record of Governors). I didn’t hear him bashing any of the other gubernatorial candidates either. Rather, he was just politely approaching people near the courthouse and suggesting that they all write his name in on the ballot. Sadly, I suspect it is a fruitless method of campaigning. (Despite enjoying his efforts, I will not be voting for the “Tank Top on Top of a Suit Coat” party.)

Good luck to all voting in the Illinois election tomorrow. Obviously, we have our work cut out for us in the voting booth. However, please don’t let this deter the voting. Do a little research beyond listening to the atrocious television ads, and get to the polls. You can get your Pumpkin Spice Latte after voting.

My name is Fabulously Awkward and I approve this message.

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Filed Under: Motivate, Opinion, Politics Tagged With: , ,

How to bathe your cat

October 18, 2010 By Fabulously Awkward 8 Comments

This past weekend I had the distinct pleasure of giving my cat, Oxford, a bath. (Please note that the previous sentence was in the font commonly known as “Sarcastic.”) In discussing this task with a friend, I figured, hey, maybe other people might want to know how to complete the ever-so-challenging task of bathing a cat. Here goes.

Step One: Determine if cat is really, in fact, filthy enough to warrant a bath. This is a rather serious endeavor, and you have to make sure you’re willing to risk your life or limb for it.

Step Two: Fill bathtub with warm water. From previous experiences, attempting to bathe a grown cat in a sink will most certainly cause bleeding and crying. Yours, not the cat’s. The water level should be shallow. You will not be dunking the cat’s head.

Step Three: Enlist any and all roommates in the wrangling of the subject cat from underneath whichever hiding place he has chosen. This often is a two-person task.

Step Four: Grab cat with two hands and take him to the bathroom.

Step Five: Set him down and dilute the shampoo. (People shampoo is too strong for cats, so you must dilute.)

Step Six: Repeat Steps Three through Five.

Step Seven: Realize that you must do all prep work before you actually wrangle the subject cat. Dilute the shampoo, make sure the bath water is the appropriate temperature, have old towels on hand.

Step Eight: Repeat Steps Three through Five, only this time, shut the bathroom door behind you. It’s just you and the feline now. (On this note, I recommend making this a two person job for the first couple of baths until you are comfortable with it being just you, a tub-full of water and a soon-to-be angry cat alone in a tiny bathroom.)

Step Nine: Grab the subject cat around the middle and plunge into the water. Make sure the cat is in the middle of the tub. If he sees he is too close to the edge, he may attempt to reach for it, and a struggle will ensue. Do not let him too close to the edge, otherwise you likely will end up bleeding and soaked in your dirty cat water. It is not fun. Trust me. Learn from my mistakes.

Step Ten: Grab the diluted shampoo mixture. At this time, if you are doing the two-person method, have one person holding the cat while you scrub the diluted shampoo on him.

Step Eleven: Rinse thoroughly. An old cup also serves well for rinsing purposes. Again, try to avoid dumping water over his head. Stay below the head for best (and least bloody) results.

Step Twelve: Wrap the cat in an old towel. Imagine as if the towel was a giant tortilla and your cat the delicious beef and beans filling. Make a cat burrito. This allows you to sop up some of the excess water while restricting movement that could cause you to bleed. Extra towels may be used if necessary.

Step Thirteen (OPTIONAL): While still locked in the bathroom, get your hair dryer out and use it on a low setting. Warning, this likely will result in your cat beating the crap out of your hair dryer. It’s actually quite an amusing side effect, and chances of blood loss are minimal: he won’t get close enough to scratch.

Step Fourteen: Unleash the beast into your home. Back away and let him run. He likely will not charge you.

Step Fifteen: Tend to all wounds. I recommend hydrogen peroxide for disinfecting purposes.

Good luck. You likely will need it.

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