Dear Santa...

Dear Santa,
I would like a chainsaw and a toy truck for Christmas. I will leave you a snack. I will leave you green peppers and apple juice. Your reindeer are nice but my dad shot them all. He told me he did. Thank you. Love, Adam (names have been changed to protect the innocent). Age: 4.

I wish I had written this.

Here goes nothing...

Dear Santa,
I wish Don Johnson hadn't ruined my acting career, although, writing is way cool. I get to be a hipster doofus as a playwright and not a crazy, neurotic bitch, which is what would have happened had I succeeded as an actress, and Don Johnson, circa 1986 Miami Vice, was totally hot. He is forgiven.

I wish my most important relationship wasn't with my iPhone. I mean, let's face it. I can't go anywhere without it. It's the first thing I touch in the morning and the last thing I touch at night. I suffer separation anxiety when we're apart and absolute bliss when we're together. That is sad.

I saw something on TV recently that reminded me of a Fiona Apple song I really liked. Thank you for that early Christmas gift. Fiona, whatever happened to you, you bad, bad girl?

I learned watching Californication that I should probably never snort cocaine. It's quite dangerous if you have a deviated septum. It's never been medically confirmed that I have a deviated septum but my nose is kinda big and crooked so thank you Santa for saving me from a life of cocaine-induced whoredom. I would, however, like to find my Jewish relatives.

I would like a skin-tight black latex body suit, like the one in the first season of American Horror Story. Just 'cause.

Walmart is a sad place. I can't go there anymore. Every time I do, I feel dirty, like my first cousin violated me in the back room of the family trailer while watching momma admit on Jerry Springer that she's pregnant with my boyfriend's kid.

I would like a unicorn, 'cause they are way cool. A comfy sweatshirt with a unicorn on it would also be ok.

I would like people to not interact with me until about noon, every day. Why are afternoon/evening people so misunderstood?

I love my cat.

That is all.

Love,
Stephanie

A tale for the anal, I mean, annals of veterinary medicine

So I've been busy lately. My 6-month old kitten had to be taken to the vet clinic last week to get spayed. It was going to be a simple procedure. However, my kitty has a frankenpaw, a weirdly deformed thing with a crazy huge nail growing out of it. I thought we'd be able to manage it on our own, but alas, I was wrong.

When I brought her in for surgery, the frankenpaw had worsened. The nail was growing into the pad of her paw and bleeding. I knew something had to be done. So, with a very heavy heart, I left her in the care of the vet clinic.

I got a call a few hours later. They had taken x-rays of kitty's paw. Our vet had never seen anything like it and suspected he never would again. Three digits were fused together. So, he put her surgery on hold and called in a couple colleagues to assess the situation and decide what to do. This was truly a unique case.

By evening, my boyfriend and I made our way to the vet's office to discuss the plan the veterinary team had come up with to fix kitty's frankenpaw. They showed us the x-ray:

I know. How crazy is that shit. She's truly one in a million. You see, we found her abandoned in a provincial park at four weeks old. I figure her previous caretaker(s) took a look at her paws and decided she was the expendable one. Oh ye of little faith. My little trooper prevailed and found herself a loving home and an excellent medical team.

So, the next day the surgery went ahead. They spayed her (which involved taking out all her lady bits - who knew?) and they fixed her paw:

We picked up kitty the day after surgery. The ordeal was not quite over yet. Kitty had to wear the cone of shame. You see, she has to keep it on until her stitches come out. I suspect it's more traumatic for me than it is for her. For the first few days after surgery she wouldn't put any weight on her former frankenpaw. I called her McLimpy. She recently started walking on it again. Here she is, resting comfortably:

How can you not love that face?

 
Kitty is progressing well. She's emerged from her stoned post-op phase and has regained all her former energy and verve. The cone comes off in two and a half days. Mommy can't wait. In the meantime, mommy needs a drink.