Sunday, January 29, 2012

Hitting Below the Belt

Feeling significantly more at ease my second week back to work, I wasn’t even remotely fazed by the massive script changes on our pre-camera blocking day. 
So we had an entirely different storyline.  (Big whoop.) 
So we had new dialogue and blocking.  (What’s new?) 
So the “Cold Open” (first scene of the show) entailed thunder and lightening (rock on, Lighting Crew!) and rain pouring down outside the windows (have fun, Special FX peeps!)
But then I overheard the most ominous words from our Director:
“Let me try the roof collapsing and rain plummeting down on our Second Team a few times in rehearsal before we actually shoot this.”
Hey now, wait, WHAT??? 
Where the HELL is it written on my daily voucher that I’m allowed to be used like a guinea pig and be dumped on by massive gallons of water and possible roof fragments?!!!  I don’t recall throwing my hat into THAT ring!!!
And whilst feeling no pain (and luckily, no Special FX rain!) that morning as I climbed through the ropes into the sit-com arena, by midday I was a-couple-of-rounds-with-Muhammad-Ali exhausted.  Our scripts had gone from plain white, to white with yellow inserts, to white with yellow and pink inserts, to white with yellow, pink and green inserts, etc. etc. etc., ad nauseam until we had actually at one point hit triple yellows. 
Down but not out for the count, I pulled myself up off the mat at the end of the day, (colored my roots that night for camera blocking!) and like a true fighter, entered the ring once again the next morning to take another beating from approximately 8AM ‘til 8PM.
Three scenes were being re-written (again), two of which we wouldn’t even receive until the day of the Audience show; and four pre-shoots loomed ominously over our heads as my AD continued to sucker-punch me with ongoing threats of sending my Gorgeous Actress to Hair/Make-Up at any given minute which would force me to take her place in absentia.  “Stay nearby.  Pay close attention.” he coached me in the corner as I hopped from foot to foot on adrenaline, studying my Leading Lady’s every move, grateful that I’d chosen sneakers as opposed to my motorcycle boots for the day (and secretly wishing that I had a satin robe with a bitchin’ fighter’s nickname embroidered on the back!)
“Put us on a bell” our AD announced as we began the pre-shoots, the buzzer ringing and red lights flashing as cameras rolled.
I was mere seconds away from slipping out the exit door for a much-needed bathroom break and half a ciggy after four hours of rehearsal, a bottle of water and three cups of orange juice, when…
“Can you see my pages if I leave them there?” our Gorgeous Actress inquired having placed the items on the floor near her feet for quick reference.
“PENNY!” my AD hollered as I immediately scampered obediently back onto the set.  “Hold this and stay close” he informed me, thrusting my Leading Lady’s script into my hands.
Hey now, wait, WHAT??? 
Frankly, this was a dangerous precedent to be set.
Now please don’t get me wrong;  I absolutely adore my Leading Lady, but for the AFTRA pittance I get paid on a daily basis as a stand-in, there was NO WAY that I was going to allow myself to get sucked into the duality of performing my actual work duties as well as being tossed into the arena to suddenly take on any of the responsibilities of her troop of assistants who generally hold her scripts, prepare and bring her food, wheel her dog around in its baby carriage and place tread-bearing socks on four furry paws!  I’m on stage all the time, I anticipate my AD’s needs and I’ve been told that I do my job exceedingly well in regard to Lighting, Sound and Cameras.
So when one of her assistants approached me, I respectfully/gratefully handed off our Gorgeous Actress’ script, confident that some semblance of rational thought and reasonable structure had been restored in my world.
“You guys are gonna be here for awhile” our First AD frowned, who despite having an actual sense of humor seemed to have had his funny bones beaten out of his system in an un-aired, un-televised welterweight battle before dinner with his own worries.
Having received an extra scene that we’d rehearsed (and had been cut during the week) but had been brought back with different dialogue in case the episode happened to run short, we (the Second Team of Stand-Ins), blocked the pages with our Director and cameras.
Now whilst I appreciate the “attempt” at efficiency to nail down one brand new piece of the sit-com puzzle, I clamped my mouth shut at the utter stupidity of presuming to pre-arrange the movements and actions of my Gorgeous Actress.    
There was no way in the world that our Leading Lady would NOT ignore the first line of dialogue from her Dad; her response and reaction would differ from what was written, and whilst the rest of the two pages might stay the same, there was absolutely no point in me giving any notes to her, when she, sporting the Title Belt of Executive Producer, had the power to re-write, re-organize and renegotiate the way that she wanted the scene to play. 
“She’s gonna do what she wants to do” I shared with one of my ADs, who couldn’t have agreed with me more.
And having been told by my First AD that we would be wrapped after my fellow Second Teamers gave notes to our visiting octogenarian-esque Guest Stars, I waited around politely until they completed their tasks, filled in my voucher with an out time of 6:15pm, left it on my Second AD’s desk for him to sign at a later date as I’d done the night before, and headed happily home to begin to enjoy my weekend of freedom.
Per my extensive training in the Hollywood boxing ring, I learned years ago that once I hit the parking structure on a studio lot and find a spot, there are three imperative notations on my checklist:
#1:  Remember on what level you’re leaving your vehicle.  (There’s nothing quite like the humiliation of wandering about up and down ramps in search of your 1997 Toyota Tercel CE that doesn’t ‘chirp’ when you want to find her.)
#2:  Check your face in the rear view mirror before leaving said vehicle.  (You’d be surprised at how driving through Los Angeles with your window down can attract unattractive particles of unknown origin in your nostril hairs!)
#3:  Pull out your cell phone, and TURN THE RINGER OFF.  (Trust me; nothing irritates a cast and crew more than having a “take” disrupted by some tool who just got a call.)
And wheeling leisurely home at the end of the work day, I placed my car in “park”, ambled through the security gate, shuffled through my mail and strolled peacefully into my sanctuary as my four-legged feline sidekick greeted me warmly.
“Who called us?” I rhetorically asked my kitty as I glanced at the landline.  “Did we have a telemarketer attempt to sell us something?” I smirked, hitting the message button, prepared to rebuff and scoff at whatever inane pitch might await us.
“We weren’t released!” my co-worker informed me in a panic.  “The ADs are REALLY MAD that you left!” she fore-warned me.
Turning my cell phone ringer back on, I was disturbed to see three missed voice mails, and one SERIOUSLY pissed off text from my Second AD admonishing me to NOT leave the studio lot.
I’ll say it again with all due necessary appropriate apologies…  Crap!
Calling my Second AD, I repented left, right, up and down for whatever miscommunication had occurred; promised that such a situation would never, ever again happen, and proceeded to beat myself up ala nine rounds with Mike Tyson.  My ear had already been chewed off on the phone, and hanging up, I splayed on the bed; metaphorically beaten, bloody and bruised.
But then the REAL fighter in me emerged!
For a total of over two decades, I’ve been at everyone’s beck and call in Hollywood as the go-to gal.  I’ve never been more than a shout away when needed; I’ve always been early for every department that might require me, and hand to my heart, I’ve never let an AD down when they needed me.
And frankly, after wiping away a few tears, I was a little bit pissed off at being berated like a toddler who accidentally spilled a glass of milk on the floor.  As it turns out, my co-workers were released at 6:30 (OMG!  A whole FIFTEEN minutes LATER!  How DARE I not linger to give a USELESS note to my lovely Leading Lady!).
Nevertheless, I’m going to have to make things right.
Armed with two gift bags full of airplane-sized bottles of Ketel One Vodka, Johnnie Walker Whiskey, Tanqueray Gin, Bacardi Rum, Dewar’s Scotch and Patron Tequila, I’ll be stepping into the arena once again tomorrow morning, hoping to avoid a smack-down.
Wish me luck in the ring!
~Prize Fighter P

Monday, January 23, 2012

Oh? Positive!

Slinking across the threshold like a vampire that had been invited into the wealthy mansion of well-known sit-com Actress, I stalked the Sound Stage to get my bearings under the cover of night.  (Well, OK, at 8:30ish in the morning under a cover of gray skies with a 15% chance of rain in Los Angeles.) 
I could hear distant voices with my highly-tuned super-sonic bat echolocation, and although wandering blindly around the unfamiliar surroundings, my thirst for the kill led me directly to my most desired, my most cherished:  My Beloved.
“SOON…!  WE will be as ONE…” I swooped my coat over my shoulder dramatically, (flailing momentarily as my backpack got caught on my coat sleeve and clocked me on the back of my head).  “SOON…!  WE will be as…”  (Aaargh, just give me a minute to get untangled here.  Crap, can’t get my arm loose…  Wait… Almost got it…  Stupid wristwatch…)
“SOON…!  WE will be as ONE…” I reiterated with all due cinematic flair.  And tilting my head, opening my mouth widely, baring my fangs and preparing for the plunge into the flesh and the sweet warm juices of the Life Forces, I had a small thought:
“Hey, do you happen to have any hot sauce or ketchup?” I drooled politely to our Craft Services Lady, my teeth ready to sink into my plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns and yes, My Beloved:  i.e. bacon.
“I’ve got lots of choices right here!” she beamed, placing a massive wicker basket on the table.
Despite having booked TWO on-camera Contract Acting roles in the past year (one of them being on this particular show), I still couldn’t shake the reality of the mentality that comes with working in fickle Hollywood.  Having not been invited back to one series last year had felt like a stake in my heart, and I could still feel the scarring.
Yet I had been invited back for Season Two of a previously well-received cable TV sit-com (my Gorgeous Actress being a fan favorite for multiple reasons), but I wasn’t entirely sure that my presence had been requested by her or by our UPM. 
I was already anxious the night before, as my AD had called to inform me that she may or may not be there for rehearsal and that I should be prepared to stand-in for the morning, afternoon and possibly the very first Run-Thru of our brand new season.
(Hey, no pressure there!!!)
And setting the alarm clock to include an extra half hour (should I feel the need to stop and purchase some adult diapers lest my nervous system choose to poop itself in front of the Network people), I took a deep breath, hopped in my car, forewent the “crap-catchers” and decided to face my fears.
At least I would have one more hot delicious free breakfast before filling out my next unemployment form, and come feast or famine, I was going to make the most of it!
And the day would be what it would be.
In hindsight, it turns out that I don’t really possess the extraordinary powers of echolocation.  (Darn it!)
My AD had simply let me know that my Gorgeous Actress would indeed be present for the entire day:  it just happened to take a few lengthy minutes for the information to maneuver its way through my prefrontal cortex muddle and eventually make sense somewhere else inside my pea-brain. 
But still, a hint of trepidation lingered…
Having set aside My Beloved for the moment as our Leading Lady walked on stage, my tummy gurgled a little as she made her way down the reception line.
There were hugs!  There were kisses!  There were laughs!
And then there was me.
“Well, welcome back, doll” she nodded with a smile, emphasizing all four words. “I’m so glad you’re here!” she squeezed me happily like a Hostess sincerely wishing to make all of her guests feel important, special and comfortable in her home.
“Thank you for inviting me back!” I beamed, suddenly feeling ridiculously stupid for my insecurities, the negative mind-manipulations in my head and all of the mental drama that I’d allowed my pea-brain to manifest.
“OK, what say we make a sit-com, everyone?!” she rallied the troops enthusiastically, taking a seat with the rest of the Cast to read the first scene together.
And cozying up in a director’s chair with my script, my scrambled eggs (saturated with Tabasco sauce), my hash browns (drizzled delicately with ketchup) and My Beloved, we sunk our collective teeth into our first episode.
I can’t say that we had a particularly easy week per se, as there were constant rewrites and multi-colored pages flying off the copy machine at the speed of the mighty Xerox; but somehow we managed to organize our rainbow scripts, pencil-in subtle changes, keep track of blocking and props, and eventually bring together nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds of comedy.
And with a heart filled with light (and eleven more episodes that will keep me employed until May!!!), I felt my ‘vampiristic’ tendencies begin to melt away.
“Can you help a brother out, kind lady?” the apparently homeless guy asked me outside the drug store.
“I don’t know; do you accept debit cards?” I attempted some humor.
“Naw, but I’d accept a candy bar!” he offered with a chuckle.
It was Friday night, I’d finished my first work week, I already had a celebratory bottle of vodka in the trunk for the weekend, I’d only stopped at CVS for some diet 7-Up, and if ANYONE could relate to feeling hungry, well that would be me.
And standing in line with my two twelve-packs of soda, I grabbed my first choice of candy bars (Snickers) for the gentleman outside, when once again, I had a small thought.
“The bag is for you” I offered, trying to maintain a grip on the sodas.  “I don’t know what you like or if you have any peanut allergies.  Plus, I didn’t know if you like dark chocolate (Milky Way Midnight is my second fave) but I got you one of those, and just in case you don’t like dark chocolate, I also got you a Three Musketeers which is milk chocolate and no peanuts.”
At the most, I anticipated a small “thank you, kind lady.”
What I got however, was the old song and dance.
No, LITERALLY, as I walked to my car I got a joyous song and dance! 
Who knew that three dollars worth of chocolate could bring so much happiness?!
If there was anything in the world that I could have asked for that night, it would’ve been sleep.  I was home in my bat-cave, a couple of cocktails warming me up on a rainy evening, kitty by my side, and two days off for the weekend to slough off any stress.  
And placing my head upon my pillow, I drifted into the deepest sleep I’d felt all week.
Poking me in the face with her paw, my feline sidekick awoke me ungodly early.  “It’s only 6:30” I pleaded, squinting at the alarm clock.  “And it’s still dark out” I whimpered; my useless whining falling on the apathetic ears of a cat who was meowing gutturally like a cheetah, and dead serious about my two choices to either get up and pour the damn milk or be eaten alive in my sleep.
“OK, OK, you don’t have to yell” I winced, clicking on the table lamp to find my glasses.
I guess my ‘vampiristic’ tendencies hadn’t dissipated as quickly as I thought.
Turns out I slept ‘til 6:30 alright…  PM.
Doing my own song and dance for feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready for work early this rainy Monday morning,
~Your Beloved P 

Monday, January 16, 2012


Despite my neurotic discomfort of conventional grocery stores, I strode boldly into my local Smart and Final Warehouse which offers only everything in bulk.  Sure it was a stupid place for a single gal to shop (who needs 16 frozen pizzas in one package?), but I was on a mission!
#1:  Cecilia (my car) was out of windshield wiper fluid and not really safe to drive in her current condition after our recent rains as creepy brown goop was busily scumming itself all over her windshield.
#2:  I was seriously hoping that a two block walk might help me clear my allergies.
#3:  Suffering from the allergies, I really wanted some non-dairy food in the house that wouldn’t turn my stomach or provoke any unpleasant gagging.
With a shopping cart almost equivalent to the size of my actual car, I angled in line with my ‘jug-o-glass-cleaner’ bobbling around like a toddler who hadn’t yet fully grown a neck, a bottle of voddy (that looked painfully tiny compared to the windshield wiper fluid), a package of salami (that could feed a family of four for a month FFS) and two boxes of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers (an afterthought, should my apartment be randomly assessed by my bully Landlord).
Oh, Cecilia looked fabulous after I squirted and wiped her windshield clean!
OK, so my allergies weren’t any better, but I had supplies in the house!
And I’d even gotten to laugh out loud at a very kind and apologetic man who was attempting to purchase eight Godzilla-sized jugs of vanilla pudding with $50.00 in cash, only to find that his purchase was over $86.00, who then offered to pay the balance with his debit card.
“Would you like cash back, sir?” the friendly check-out lady offered.
“Can I do that?”
“Of course; just key in the amount on the pad” she added helpfully, as the befuddled guy entered ‘fifty’.  “And here’s your original cash back!” she laughed.
“Hakuna matata!” I giggled, as he stood looking at his cart and staring at his money.
*Knock, knock*
“I knew it; I knew it, I KNEW IT.” I rolled my eyes, thinking that I really should have cleaned the kitchen sink water spots.  After all, no one knocks on my door at night unless they have a key to the gate, and even then, they usually have the courtesy to call from the phone outside the gate.  I HAD the Mr. Clean Magic Erasers; I just didn’t anticipate the Health Department and my Landlord dropping by on a Thursday night, FFS.
*Knock, knock*
“What fresh hell is this, Mr. Yang?” I mumbled under my breath, padding in my jammies to the door, putting my voddy on a coaster and expecting the worst.  “What, I haven’t yet thrown out my Christmas boxes?  My apartment is a fire hazard?  Ooh, too many Holiday cards might erupt into spontaneous flames?” I muttered to myself irritably as I unlocked the deadbolt.
“Hi Penny, its George…  Sorry to bother you at such a weird time…”
Frankly I hadn’t seen my Landlord’s son in a few years.  I always liked him, I knew he’d moved to Hong Kong awhile back for business, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why he was standing on my doorstep with an armful of envelopes. 
“I have some bad news…”
Insert internal dialogue:  “Oh, FFS your Dad FINALLY found a way to evict me out of my RENT-CONTROLLED APARTMENT, so he can freaking DOUBLE his INCOME; and he’s too big of a WUSSY to EVICT me HIMSELF!”
“My Dad was killed in a car crash a week ago.  I just wanted to let everyone know in person.  Almost everyone in this building is like family after all these years.  Here’s a letter explaining the details and our phone numbers if you need anything fixed or repaired.”
Frankly, I felt like the worst human being in the world.  I was less than pond scum.  I was sub-amoeba.  I’d unknowingly mentally cursed-out a dead man in my head while looking his grieving son in the eye.
My kingdom for a nearby rock to slither under, but for the moment, a hug of sympathy would have to suffice.
I didn’t like my Landlord.
I said it.
If he never woke me up at 6:00am again to move my car so he could trim the neighboring bougainvillea, I’d have been OK.  (Dude, I’m on hiatus like every three weeks…)
Had he not “encouraged” me to get rid of excessive crap accumulated over the years in the Hollywood industry (which is all probably bringing a lovely price on E-Bay that I’ll never see), well, yes, I’d be fine with that too.
But seriously, threatening to shuffle my elderly cat to a shelter and put me out on the street? 
Well, that was just downright mean…
“I didn’t like him!” I wept on the phone to my friend (and Life Coach) Ellie Mae.  “But I feel so bad for his family!  And yet I feel a weird sense of relief at the same time that he can’t bully me anymore.  Am I an awful human being for saying that out loud?” I sobbed, waiting for God to smite me in some Biblical destruction with all due manner of pestilence, boils and frogs.  
“Unfortunately Penny” she sighed, “and I hate to break this to you” she added gently, “but on the scale of psychoses, you’re completely ordinary.”
“Hunh” I replied:  suddenly feeling comforted in the oddest way…
My thoughts and prayers are with the Landlord’s family during their time of mourning and the loss of a husband and father.
And as for me personally?
Well Mr. Yang, I’ll always think of you when I look at the bougainvillea!
Forever trying to make sense,

Sunday, January 8, 2012

But, I want to be on the Jumbo Tron!

Glamorous stand-in /Actress that I’ve become over the past twenty years, I looked forward to my winter hiatus.   I’d recline elegantly with my regal feline sidekick as the Aristocracy is prone to do;  lounge lazily in my pajamas, and perhaps even allow my throng of highly-paid attendants to peel me a few grapes.
Oh the world was my oyster!  (Well, um, except that I’m actually allergic to shellfish and I have no attendants.)
Donning my hand-me-down Juicy Couture black velvet lounge pants from a well-known and generous Actress, I prepared for bed when the First of January Twinge hit my nose…
Clearly one of my upstairs neighbors had received his yearly “high end” cologne for the holidays which was slowly permeating my apartment…
Now, one might think that as I’m an admitted half a pack a day American Spirit cigarette smoker, my olfactory acuity might be a wee bit off the mark.  Sure there could be a plant, a tree, a new perennial bulb in bloom!
All I know for sure is that I went to sleep, curled up with my blanket and kitty, and awoke to my cranium as possibly The World’s Largest Snot Factory… 
(Please do indulge me in attempting to write common English as well as attempting to express what actually came out of my mouth.  Feel free to read it out loud if it helps to interpret.)
“I geth I got by Chrithmath with” I sneezed for the gazillionth time.  “All I wanthed wath a blanket ovah by hed and thum time ta thleep…” I shared with my heroic feline sidekick Pretty who was sitting upright confrontationally, staring at me like I was a drizzling abomination and showing absolutely no mercy in the moment.  “I’b not thick, bind you, but by winther allageez hab kicked in!” I explained scientifically, logically and as clear as a bell to my kitty who (if she had actual ‘eyebrows’) might as well have been frowning.
“Poth nathal drip thucks!  And I’b gonna need anobber thisshue…” I implored the High Court of Feline-icity-ness.  (Yes I make up words – it’s just a blog post.)  “Thee!  Itsh all clear!” I offered as evidenced by the tell-tale lack of presence of any yellowish or green hues in my tissue.
Despite my pleas however (and her ability to wield an actual gavel), Judge Pretty literally “turned tail”, deemed me unworthy of any remedial immediate healing and burrowed somewhere into the depths of a closet; leaving me and my massively oversized drippy Charlie Brown head to bobble around and fend for ourselves.
But we would be OK!  After all, I don’t have to go back to work until my next show which starts around January 16, so I could load up on allergy medication and handle the situation like a pro!  I’d be post nasal drip free, get my appetite back (a seriously lousy side effect of some allergies when icky sinus stuff drains down the back of your throat) and be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for Season Two of standing-in for a Gorgeous Actress that I admire and respect!  Maybe I could even just suffer for a FEW more days, get some rest, drink plenty of fluids and ENJOY my last few nights of freedom from the 5:30am alarm clock! 
And (no offense to Charlie Brown) I pulled up my blanket (ala Linus) close for comfort and slept for the next thirteen hours.
“Hewo?” I answered in a newly discovered baritone voice emanating from my on-going mucous-filled cranium and apparently snot-coated larynx.
“Hi Penny, I’m calling from Central!  I know that you’re an amazing stand-in and wondered if you happen to have any experience with Teleprompters?”
“Ub-huh!” I wheezed cheerfully.  “I dib a cubble-a DGA award shows!” I added helpfully, quietly stuffing a Puffs (Plus Lotion) tissue up a nostril to catch the unpleasant sitting-upright drainage.  “I’b not great at it” I admitted, “but I’b done it!  An I’b been assed back aghain!” I added proudly, stifling a sneeze into the crook of my inner elbow.
“Thanks for your honesty.  It’s only a two day award show shooting this Saturday and Sunday anyway…”
“Wait, whuh???”
Flopping my humongous snot-filled Linus head back down on the bed, grabbing my security blanket and flinging another tissue into the neighboring barrel of used Puffs I wondered if I’d said something wrong.  I’m relatively consistent at booking employment!  I’m excellent at my job!  And people like me!!!  (Well, MOST people like me!)  Where did I go wrong? 
Trodding into my bathroom (new tissue in hand should my sinuses begin their next cascade ala Niagara Falls), I gazed in the mirror (wondering momentarily how my enormous allergy head had managed to even fit through the doorway), as a stream of vitreous fluid seeped out of my right eye.
“Should I hab said subfrig else?” the baritone voice cleared its throat as it spoke; an orchestral cacophony of further disquieting noises echoing off the walls and into the sink.
Sometimes, I think you just need to accept your limits and call it a day!
Meanwhile, I’m choosing to believe that everything happens for a reason (Good grief, that award show could have been somewhere DOWNTOWN!); I’m glad that I left the house today and bought my box of Claritin early (what took me so long?), and I’m ever so thankful that I have a job to return to in the next two weeks!
Thinking of investing in Puffs, contemplating a letter to Claritin (which isn’t working as I’m still all disgustingly nose-drippy), and clutching my blanket for comfort,
~Sinus Linus “Big Head” P

Thursday, January 5, 2012

The Hibernation Paradox

As a highly skilled professional in the television entertainment business thriving in Los Angeles, I’ve become accustomed to the general lack of work that doesn’t often occur around the Holidays. 
No matter, really, as I’d scarfed down enough food from Craft Services on my last two shows to sustain me through the “brutal” California winter, and with a gentle turning up of the thermometer in my bat-cave as the weather menaced the area (43 degrees???), I threw an extra blanket on the bed (Brrr!) and settled in for a long winter’s nap with my kitty.
I had shown up for five (count ‘em, FIVE!) Holiday celebrations; and I could finally rest in peace (if you will).
Unfortunately however, neither my stomach, The Universe nor my cat got the memo:
#1.  As it turns out, no matter how much bacon you think you’ve stored up, you still have to eat every day.  (Aww, c’mon!)
#2.  January is apparently the time for every obnoxious professionally trained telephone solicitor to call out of the blue with a credit card offer for the New Year.  I’m more than happy to be polite (they’re just doing their jobs), but seriously!  No calls before noon!  (Um, well, preferably 2:30pm…) But still, NOT INTERESTED!!!
#3.  If you choose to open up your home and rescue a cat, know in advance that 16 years down the road you will be pawed mercilessly on the face for a saucer of milk at all hours of the morning by a ball of fur who supposedly sleeps 22 hours a day, yet will determine your worthiness as being functional with opposable thumbs in access to the great white nectar; or sanctioned to be just a meat carcass to be sampled and eventually devoured in your sleep for refusing to wake up and pour some moo juice...
With a blanket over my head until mid January,
~Hibernation Queen P