Because No One Can Get Enough of Baby Animals

Last Friday I was at CSP’s office again—this time to visit a 9-week-old Great Pyrenees puppy.  I know it must seem like he has a menagerie of baby animals to which to lure me over there, but my guess is a kitten and a puppy is all he’s going to be able to come up with. 

This is Miss Betty White.  Considering she is just over two-months old, it is hard to believe that she could fill my whole lap.  I resisted the urge to nom on her fat paddies and floppy ears. 

We were puzzled by her brown face, since both CSP and I thought that GPs were all white (that ends up not to be true), and we found out that she actually has Akita in her.  What a fantastic mix!  She made sloppy love to my knees, and I swooned and giggled, and was sad to see her go.  Unfortunately, I probably will never see her again.  Le sigh.

FUN FACT: According to the American Kennel Club, the first Akita was brought over from Japan by Helen Keller in 1937.  This led to a tasteless joke by CSP.  Poor Helen Keller, she can’t even introduce the US to a new breed of dog without comment from us almost 75 years later.

FUN FACT II: Also according to the AKC, Akitas are described as having a temperament that “can range from calm to bouncy and aggressive...” Thus leading me to make my own joke about how they are describing me.  “…So the breed should always be supervised around small children…” Yes, that is very true, I should always be supervised around small children, lest I get bouncy and aggressive on them.  It is simply part of my temperament, I cannot be held liable for my actions.

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Buffalohead is in town once again (last seen over Memorial Day weekend when Ivy Vyne was visiting me), and I had a lovely few hours with him, Nauticalina and a few others last night at this weird home-décor cum wine-bar last night.  There were a lot of pig sculptures.  I’m not complaining—it was just odd.  So was the “rape hallway” leading to the bathroom (thank you, Nauticalina, for that colorful descriptor to describe where I needed to go). 

While reminiscing about the *fun* times in high school, Buffalohead pointed out that we have known each other 20 years.  Nauticalina pointed out that she was two years old when he and I met.  Thanks, lady.  This is where hanging out with a 22-year-old can have its down side. 

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Tonight is more fun with Nauticalina.  We’re going to the Peelander-Z show (Parish, $12, you should go, too), and one of my friends who was here during south-by is back in town to play the Psych Fest.  At least a year usually passes before we see each other again, so it being just over a month is a real treat (I feel like I am channeling a doddering old lady when I use that phrase, but since I only have ONE cat, I have proof that I am not that person…yet). 

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Lastly, someone today was talking about a woman’s genitals, and referred to them as the “heaven region of a woman.”  He said it without irony or even a hint of a giggle.  Please discuss how that makes you feel.

Pantslessness

There’s a tabby that likes to visit the backyard, terrorize The Bear through the backdoor window, and leaves fatty turds for ET to discover and eat.  I feed ET tasty collard greens, fresh nopalitos, hay, and neon-orange yams.  Why the fuck does he run around the backyard chomping on cat poo?  It’s so distressing.

Here he is pretending he doesn’t have cat shit in his mouth.

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Yesterday, I used the oven for the first time since moving to the new place.  I had whipped up some Yorkshire pudding batter, and was putting it in the oven when I realized it was cold.  Le sigh.  Awesome.  Thus, with CSP coming over in less than two hours to pick me up for fun times at a friend’s, I had to figure out how the fuck to light the oven’s pilot light. 

I’m a bit of a paranoid freak when it comes to fire.  Particularly, the idea of my house burning down, and losing all my worldly possessions, including the children.  Thus, I put The Bear in the bedroom, and ET was already in the backyard (more than likely eating feline feces), tied my hair back, and started dismantling the stove per the instructions on the door.

Did I mention that I was having a pantsless weekend?  My goal was to spend as much time in my underwear as possible.  It just felt like the right type of weekend for it. I had managed to spend probably 80% of Saturday in my panties and a t-shirt, and Sunday had started out well in my boy-cut girl boxers and bra.  Thus, I was basically naked when lighting the pilot light.  I worry about my hair catching fire, but somehow didn’t think of my precious skin.  Those are the lengths I go to to achieve my goals.

Thankfully, lit gas did not go shooting through my place.  It was actually fairly anticlimactic.  There was some blue fire.  That’s it.  My skin remained unscathed, The Bear was able to leave the bedroom to bleat at my ankles, and we all know by now what ET was up to.  The Yorkshire pudding was successfully baked (using the mini-muffin tin), and CSP was 30 minutes late.  Therefore, no time was actually lost by the no-pilot-light set-back, and I got to be pantsless even longer than originally planned.  Score!

There’s batch number one.  They are eggy, buttery goodness that made everyone’s mouth skins happy.

The rest of the day was very satisfactory, both with pants and without pants (I made sure to wear dresses this weekend when I did leave the house, which is pseudo-pantslessness, and I get half-credit for it).  Also, thank you to all my friends who supported my goal (you know who you are).  I owe each of you so much.  I will make another batch of pantsless Yorkshire puddings, and each of you can come over here, drop your trousers at the door, and eat them on the loveseat with me.

Overnight Cat Dance Party

After a very bleary start to my morning, I was rewarded with the sight of cat footprints all over my windshield as the sun hit the car just right as I turned in to the parking garage at work.  Some people get really pissy when there are cute smudgy paw prints all over the window, but not me.  It looked like there was a cat dance party last night, and that made me smile.  There were even some swoosh lines, as if a few of the cats were bent back in to a deep dip.  Jealous!

The office is vacant today—it’s just me and Ex-Cop.  I finished a very annoying archival project, and I now have 6.5 hours to kill.  Who-Wee is off shopping (and probably drinking) with her daughters, which is a damn shame, because it’s a perfect day for some office ping-pong.  Instead, I’ll probably just spend some quality time slouching in my chair, and scowling at the creeping advance of the clock. 

I managed to waste about ten minutes on the Austin Siamese Rescue website.  This kitten lust is ravaging my poor heart.  I also miss Mattress something fierce, and while The Bear is creaming his fuzzy black self every time he opens his eyes and sees that he truly is the only cat in the house, I need some cuddles.  I realize that to be an awesome mother, I need to put The Bear’s needs before mine, but he doesn’t let me cry in to his belly, and he makes the most awful goat bleats when I squish him to my bosom.  Ungrateful child o’ mine. 

Last night I donned my party dress and orange mary janes (that sound you hear is Laroux’s bellow of extreme jealousy), and went to the UT fashion show with Who-Wee and her kids (we had good seats since they are friends with one of the designers).  It wasn’t a night of playing pool with Cattleboy, nor did I accept any first place prizes (all of the fun things I have done in the party dress so far), but I felt pretty, and sometimes, that is what’s really important.  In linking to the Cattleboy post, I ran across the post about Whoopis’ death, and I started crying.  Now I don’t feel as pretty.  

Speaking of Cattleboy, last night we discussed possibly playing some more pool in the near future.  Maybe if I put that in to words here, it’ll really happen.  I would very much like that.  Then I can show him how I’m fairly certain my moles are growing back, and he can show me exactly what he got tattooed across his chest.  This is chaste show-and-tell people, and will probably be way less sexy than me pulling down my shorts in a gay bar. 

Clementine seems to be doing well.  I cannot judge firsthand since CSP is all greedy, and thinks she belongs to him.  Gah!  He tells me that she is a very neat and tidy cat when it comes to litterbox habits, and that she is interested in dry kibble, but she shouldn’t eat it, since it is a choking hazard at one month of age.  CSP has finally come up with a proper name for her—a name I totally approve of (so shut it, mister), but Clem will forever be her pet name.  And Little Miss.  Perhaps he will be so kind to bring her to see me this weekend; and, no, I can’t go to his place (it’s complicated, and not worth discussing for fear all of you would fall asleep, drool on your keyboards, and then I’d feel responsible for your broken laptops).

Since I’m becoming one of those crazy cat-blogging ladies, here is another picture of kitties.  I miss these boys, even if two of them probably haven’t even noticed that I am no longer a part of their daily lives.

Saturday Night Clarification

Remember how I said on Saturday that I was going to Guamaniac's for a nice relaxing night in front of the television?  Well, as things often go with him, that ended up not being true.  Even though I didn't look my best (hours rolling around with a kitten, followed by a 2-hour nap, tends to make me look a bit disheveled), I agreed to go be his wing-lady, and help him sex-up a beekeeper at Charlie's.  I was in a terrific mood, and thus found myself with my pants halfway down as the beekeeper admired my full-leg tattoo (we were going to go to the bathroom, but seriously, I was in a gay bar, an almost-empty gay bar on a Saturday night, what did it matter if I pulled my pants down to my knees so a very nice guy could see the turtle that rides my left thigh?).  I don't think a single person noticed.  Later we found ourselves at Lipstick 24 to support our DJ friend.  All I can say is I was made to dance, and I was completely sober.  Some girl grabbed my ass, and Guamaniac managed to accidentally kick my ankle quite hard.  Then I drove everyone home in a Mini (man, those puppies have some serious horsepower, but I hated how the inside is set-up, lots of pretty lights but nothing actually conducive to driving). 

After what was by most accounts an exciting Saturday, I spent Sunday sleeping late (finally, people, it has been so long), running errands (aka: spending more than I should have at Target, and still forgetting to pick up two, much-needed clocks), pet-sitting Wikus' cats (aka: napping on his couch) and making love to my own couch (aka: Netflix and more Netflix). 

I have no kitten updates to provide.  Someone, quick, call CSP and have him bring her to me.  Since I have no update, I will provide this photo:

Crotch Kitten! (Crotch provided by CSP)

Fully Erect With Kitten Lust

Soon, hopefully very soon, I will get to see the wee little miss again.  She still has no name, and I've been lobbying hard for Clementine, but for what ever reason, I am not in charge.  Gah.  CSP and I are going to take her to a clinic to get her tested for all those horrible diseases that cats can carry.  There are two indoor-outdoor cats at his place that are at risk of infection if he doesn't get her checked.  It's a bit late in the day, so hopefully we can get her seen.  Squeeeeeeeee.
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Several hours later--hours that included many fun things including a 2-hour nap.  For now, her name is not Clementine, but since that is such a better name, that is what she will be called here.  Unfortunately, she is too young to be tested for anything, but she did get some heartworm medication.  I remember the *fun* times of giving that stuff to the kittens.  Or rather, the squirting my knee always received by a well-timed turn of the head.  I have some serious kitten lust.  I want to just nom nom her ears and eyes and paws and tail.  I was so worn out by all that loving on her that I had to immediately go to sleep when she left.  I don't have any good pics of her--she's an all-black furball.  I have expectations to see her often, so I'll see what I can do.
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Last weekend, I moved in to my new place.  It's all mine, and thus I painted it the color of toothpaste, bright yellow and lime green.  I have a room that will be completely dedicated to mosaicing (and will eventually be a gorgeous deep rose pink).  It's just The Bear, ET and me.  I am surrounded by all my books and am feeling a bit of well-earned peace.  Even The Bear is happier--he seems to be the obvious winner of the break-up, no more Mattress and kittens.  He prances around making his goat noises at me.  I even woke up at some point last night to him on the bed next to me.  Sure, I accidentally smacked him, which made for an abrupt end to a rare snuggle by him. 

This past week, my friends were intent on not leaving me alone.  I could nom nom on all their ears, too.  Such thoughtful beauties.  Though, it has created an uptick in my drinking--nothing dramatic, considering that they all keep chiding me for managing to nurse one drink over a span of three hours.  I did have two beers this afternoon with CSP--blame the adorable kitten!  Now I'm off to Guamaniac's for a relaxing late Saturday night with some wine and television.  He promises to spank me if I am a few minutes late--the glory of being a single lady!  I can be abused by an extremely attractive gay man with no compunction.  Score!

Don't Stumble

Because people keep stumbling over this by accident, like I left my foot out in a busy aisle in the dark, The Boy and I are no longer together.  This isn't something up for discussion.  There were philosophical differences that could not be overcome.  It hurts.  It hurts a lot.  I cry, and sometimes I laugh.  I'm letting go of my identity, and am sitting here feeling lucky and happy to have such wonderful friends.  You know who you are.  I feel like I owe you the first born I'll never have.  You have made my life so much easier.  Thank you Frijole, The Amazon, C&L, CSP, Wikus, Fink-Nottle, Meggles, Guamaniac, Nauticalina, and all the rest of you. 

In other news, I got to play with a teeny tiny kitten today.  She was found on the grounds where CSP works.  I could not pass up a chance to squish a little kitten against my bosom.  I managed to walk away without taking her home.  It was hard, and I'll forever hate CSP for telling me about her existence, but The Bear is adjusting to his new home, and is so happy without Mattress and the bratty kittens (The Boy has them, and I have The Bear and ET) that it would just be wrong of me to disrupt his life yet again.  I want to call CSP right now and tell him he's a jerk, because I'm a bit tipsy, and dammit, I want a teeny tiny kitten to squish to my bosom.  Jackass.

One More Night

Just one more night, please.  I swear I'll be back in business tomorrow.  I promise to be informative, and give details, and explain what the fuck I have been doing over the past few days, weeks, month.  Right now, I'm very tired.  Exhausted.  Practically hallucinating. 

More Fun With Diagrams

Welcome to Suck Day!  If you have to ask what Suck Day is, then you probably just won't understand, or you will in some intrinsically human empathetic way, but you won't actually get it.  If my resentment is burning your eyes out like hot acid, then I apologize.  It's Suck Day, I simply cannot help it if my vitriolic attitude bubbles over and on to everything.

Here's an illustrative timeline of my day (zoom in as necessary):

I fear making a timeline of my week or my month--it's really that bad.  Best to leave today's as an example of how my ass is missing a shiny star.  However, good things did happen today, too:

Fuck yes, that's right, a Siamese kitten cam!  I am so happy that I can share that with any of you who weren't already aware of it.  Now, I must warn you, occasionally you will see something scary--in the words of CSP, "Ahhh! I was watching the cute kitties and all of a sudden this weird old hippie w/ a skirted eggshell mullet shows up."  Just breathe and count to 10, and he'll go away. 

What's Your Damage, Allergies?

Someone smells like cigarettes around here.  It's funny how sometimes the smell of cigarettes can linger as two different scents--sometimes it is like a currently lit cigarette, and other times it is the horrible stench of an ashtray.  Right now it is the latter, and it is paining me to no end.  I don't know who it is, because as far as I am aware, none of the Ex-Cop group smokes.  My allergies are really bad today, and therefore, I think my nose is being extra sensitive.  I'm all sniffly and sneezy.  Ask CSP, he came by my desk this morning (surprise!), and boy was I a hot mess.  Le sigh.

Thus, I am grumpy.  My allergies suck and it stinks in here.  I didn't sleep well, either.  Last week, after complaining to my psychiatrist that I had a serious worry that I was having early-onset dementia, she took me off the Ambien, and put me on Trazodone (or Trazobone as Fink-Nottle calls it for its priapism side effect), which I have yet to start.  I accidentally forgot my Ambien Friday night, and actually slept pretty well, so I didn't take it Saturday night, and that was a success, too.  Last night failed.  I was pretty awake, and it was likely due to being keyed-up over a certain matter that I'm not going to get in to here (but having to do with two separate worlds colliding, which is actually happening twice in two separate instances, so that would be two worlds of mine colliding with two different worlds of mine, making four worlds all colliding, with two of the four keeping me awake last night--do I need to draw a diagram?).  Ahem.  The point is I am not on any brain-altering drugs of any kind, and haven't been since my last pill Thursday night.  I am on allergy medication, but you can pretty much assume that I am always on those.  I call those my Life pills.

If I am still having memory problems off of Ambien, then I am going to visit a neurologist.  I'm really starting to freak out over how much my brain is not retaining.  I'm talking whole conversations just drop out of it.  I have no idea what I have been saying and who have I been saying it with.  What if I told the wrong person that I love touching my breast?  Wait, that's not a secret.  Never mind.  Still, it is affecting me adversely.  I hate it when people repeat the same stories, and if I can't remember if I told you something, I'm going to end up repeating myself, and that will suck for both of us.  I'll be filled with shame.  This is the problem about having such high standards of people--I hang my head in despair when I can't meet my own expectations.  Then there's the whole problem of forgetting what I said I would do at work.  Not that anyone would notice--Twit's been doing that for two years now, and it doesn't seem to get in her way.  Still, it makes me sad, and I really don't want to be this kind of crazy in my mid-30s.  Here's to hoping it was just the Ambien lingering in my system!

Yesterday I dropped a box of nonfiction books on my face (blame my weak upper-body strength, and that I am too short to reach certain shelves).  As far as I can tell, my allergies are causing more damage than that did.  I also played one-handed croquet, and seem to be a natural at it (I did not win, but I pulled off some amazing shots for a first-timer).  It helped that I wasn't drunk, but then again, a drunk person won, but she has played a lot more croquet in her life than me.  She also asked me what my damage was, which is insanely funny.  I tried to get her head on the ground, so I could do her some damage, but it didn't quite work out that way.  Heathers references will probably always remain endearing to my age group.  C&L throw such swell parties--they also feed me hot dogs, so I am obligated to say that no matter what.

No, I am not any closer to revealing what has kept me so occupied these last few weeks.  I apologize.  It's a hot flame that burns the functioning parts of my brain every time I get near it.  Remind me in a couple of days that I have something to tell you, because I will have probably already forgotten, and I'll see if I can get any closer to actually putting it in to words.
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Update: Ivy Vyne really needed a diagram of my worlds colliding.  This is really simple, and will probably embarrass her once she sees how simple it really is.  Last night it was the red and blue worlds colliding.  The purple and yellow have been colliding for around a week or so now.  Yes, scribbling is the universal language of a collision.  Thank you.