Grumples: what have you been doing?
Wikus: I wandered into the other room and read part of a Brian Eno interview that's in the TapeOp I got today.
Grumples: i see
Grumples: i texted with CSP. he ate tunafish from a can and i yelled at him for it since i specifically instructed him to save it for a nuclear winter
Wikus: That's the only time I could see eating it.
Grumples: i knew you'd agree
There is something magical when I am able to come home and gorge on hummus and garlic pita chips. And that’s not all, there’s cake. Motherfucking marble cake. I didn’t even have to share it with anyone. Score! Though, I discovered that Brekkie enjoys hummus, or at least having it on the tip of his nose. I warned him that it would probably give him the squirts, but he just looked at me with his large, round eyes and meeped.
Be prepared to puke in your hand after reading this—it probably reveals too much about who I am:
Me: Happy afternoon, sweetie. Thank you for all the fun this morning, last night, this weekend…
CSP: Good afternoon to you. I had a nice weekend too. Thank you for everything.
Me: It was all my pleasure! I very much enjoy being with you.
CSP: Likewise.
Me: Even when I’m crying during a 60 Minute segment on South Park? Because if so, when you go to brag about how awesome your girlfriend is, you may want to leave that part out. :) *
CSP: Your secret’s safe with me.
Me: That’s only because you’re a man of few words. Perhaps you’ll fart my secret to everyone instead?
CSP: Keep it up and I’ll make sure everybody knows.
Me: No one knows what your farts are trying to say, so I’m not particularly worried.
* I had no idea that watching South Park would make me cry. It came as quite a shock. But here’s the thing. Back in the way back when, in August of 1997, the first episode of South Park aired, and I just happened to be watching, and this scene changed my life:
Specifically, I immediately announced I am naming my kitten Potpie. And so, Potpie was named. He wasn’t born yet, that would happen two weeks later on September 1, and I wouldn’t bring my little Whoopis home until some time in November, but he was named Potpie, and he was the best little guy ever. And so, I apparently cry when watching South Park now. And that damn 60 Minutes segment even showed this damn clip. Motherfuckers.
The two sides of Clementine.
My little chickenmonkey is a fetching fiend. He may not want me to pet him (he flinches and gives me big round eyes of terror when my hand gets anywhere near him), and he may not snuggle, but damn if he can’t get enough of bringing things for me to throw. He particularly likes pipe cleaners and receipts. The problem is I throw these items like they are bricks. I hurl them with all my might, and can basically feel my elbow joint and tendons shredding. Since I’m also an old lady, I get tired very quickly, and I end up asking him to fetch me a hotdog and a beer. He looks at me with pity since evidently I don’t understand the concept of fetch—that being I have to throw the hotdog and beer first before he’d bring them to me. Sigh.
I just finished the last episode of Make It or Break It on Netflix. Pleases, someone tell me, is there a third season, and how long must I wait? Oh, thank goodness, Wikipedia informs me that the show was renewed just a week ago. Damn, I have my fucking thumb on the pulse of hot teen action, don’t I?
What am I to watch now? How about Life Unexpected? With the less hot chick from Roswell (I know it must be hard to be her, and not be the hot one with the great rack who is in all those hipster movies and Grey’s Anatomy).
Last night CSP and I were watching Firefly. It was the episode where they broke in to the hospital (Ariel), and I had a sudden realization: I’m pretty sure Doctor Horrible is wearing the doctor costume from this episode. Those side buttons are just so lovely. Sadly, this captain Nathan Fillion never proudly proclaims that the “hammer” is his penis, which is too bad since that just leaves us watching Summer Glau ooze her bad acting all over the screen. A quick Google search confirms my shared-costume thought.
Somewhere between watching Firefly and getting all handsy, I asked CSP why there were no medical shows set in the future? He didn’t have an answer, but thought I was on to something. I don’t want some crazy, outlandish sci-fi show. I just want your run-of-the-mill medical shows that just happens to be set about 500 years in the future. I didn’t flesh out the whole concept other than inventing Nano-Crabs ™. I’m so excited about them. They are little robotic pubic lice that one infects people with on purpose. Then you log on to your fancy future computer, and see exactly where your Nano-Crabs go by using GPS. There will be all sorts of reporting capabilities—graphs in bright colors, for instance—and if you’re so inclined, the ability to send e-cards to the current owner of your crab-bots. My Nano-Crabs can even fucking collect the DNA from the very vagina your dirty, cheating bastard is dipping in to. I really like the idea of spy STDs.
Last weekend there was a spot of rain, and the weather has been significantly cooler at night, and hot damn my morning glories are in heaven.
(That’s wee little Meggles in my window.)
For the past two Sunday nights in a row, I have found myself on a pleasantly ratty and squishy loveseat watching football with CSP’s hand resting reassuringly on my leg (or he’s keeping me from escaping, I’m not entirely sure). Because I care quite deeply for CSP, I actually do make an attempt to understand what is going on, and even put some serious thought in to it (for instance, a discussion point from last night centered around whether if replays should be studied to the point of assisting referees with their calls? I think not because the game wasn’t designed with technology involved, and it just seems to take the point of having a referee at all if we’re just going to zoom in on the replay and dissect it from a digital standpoint). It is absolutely adorable to me how much CSP wants me to enjoy this with him. He gets animated, and talks as if we are really discussing various ways I could service him sexually. Such sweet romance!
I still dislike football and don’t give a crap about the game. I spent the majority of last night rooting for someone to stamp on Michael Vick’s neck. Seems someone received a somewhat garbled transmission, and he did manage to get injured, and hilariously bit his tongue, and had to be taken out of the game. Jackass.
During these special times on the loveseat, I’m generally playing Settlers of Catan on my phone. It’s a sick addiction, and I fear it will replace Angry Birds as a time-suck. However, it has proven itself a very useful, and welcome, distraction.
It’s been three Saturdays since I lost my man to football, and it hasn’t been terrible. We’ve managed to spend some extra time together Sunday nights, but that’s usually at his house where there’s a revolving door of visitors and late-night shenanigans. Who in their right mind starts cooking sausage after 11pm on a Wednesday, and then calls you on your cell to come downstairs and eat it? There also seems to be a contest on who can leave the most lights on, and have at least one device blaring noise to an empty room for as long as possible. I’m not sure if the winner has to achieve both of these goals, or if there are separate awards. I fear I’m making CSP lose since I keep turning off his light and stereo. Sorry! To understand what really goes on over there, I present the fact that they floated a keg in two-weeks’ time. I had maybe half a pint.
Nauticalina and Wikus have proven to be truly wonderful Saturday play partners.
Lately, I’ve had several very close friends do questionable things. Things that have already caused them pain, and will probably continue to cause them varying levels of emotional hurt. This frustrates me. I love my friends. I don’t like seeing them be so complicit in things that cause them such pain. It’s vexing to me on so many levels, and probably because I know I do the same things all the time. I talk big to my friends, and am pretty much a passive-aggressive supportive-nonsupportive asshole. I want them to make (what I feel is) the right decision—one full of self-confidence and esteem, one that doesn’t let someone else dictate the terms of a relationship. But obviously I’m just dictating, too. So frustrating for me to stand aside, letting them figure this shit out on their own, but yet also having to be supportive when I completely disapprove, and be there when they cry without saying “I told you so,” because there is nothing more douchy than that.
Today I let someone I love totally be a jerk to me. I did protest a bit, but didn’t completely call him out on it either. We make these exceptions for the people who matter the most, and I don’t know what to do about that. And I don’t know how to help my friends who are making even larger, life-changing decisions that allow people to trample their self-worth. Grrr.
Ahem. As promised, kittens!
Texas is on fire. It’s less on fire than it was a few days ago, but it is still burning with a frightening, drought-fed force. The closest wildfire to me is about 20 miles southeast, and thus I’m in no real danger—except the air quality is abysmal (all those chemicals in the air of things that were never meant to be burned are excruciating to my sinuses). It’s been a mentally exhausting week for me. I keep the Austin-American Statesman’s page open so I can constantly rubberneck the horror. Even though there are plenty of hurricanes and tornadoes and earthquakes, and the resulting catastrophes of flooding, nuclear-reactor meltdowns, broken buildings, there is something about fire that scares me in a deeply primal way. Maybe it is just my material ways, and how it is simply the loss of literally everything. There really is nothing to be salvaged after a fire. And I empathize too much with other people’s pain, and I feel at times paralyzed by what all these families have lost.
Complicating things is constantly being subjected to jokes about Rick Perry’s day of prayer for rain, and being asked if that didn’t work? Hmmm? Look, the guy is an ass, and maybe someone should be making those jokes to him, not me. It sucks enough to live in Texas and be the butt of so many jokes on a national level, but dammit, there is actual real suffering happening right now, and aiming an asinine Rick Perry joke at me is simply tiring, and makes me want to kick people in the teeth.
Thursday Clem went from being a little girl to an old lady with a quick ripping out of her uterus. Whomever shaved her at the clinic had a bit too much fun with the clippers, and exposed way too much of her underside. Just like Brekkie, the surgery was only a little blip in her life, and has not held her back in anyway. Though we should probably not be allowing it, and will be flamed by many people for being horrible parents, we are letting Clem and Brekkie enthusiastically roll around together on the floor biting and kicking each other with zeal. So far her incision looks lovely, and she doesn’t seem to be in any pain (I mean, she hasn’t stopped jumping up on the counters). Currently they are cute sleeping coins. It’s exhausting being a kitten.
Even with all my fretting over the wildfires, I managed to have a busy week. Finally saw Blue’s new place, and she made me tasty veggie tacos. She’s working on a very large, purple spider piñata. I’m a bit jealous of her crafting ways. In my spare time, I’ve been watching an unhealthy amount of Make It or Break It. I really cannot explain my obsession with crappy teen-oriented television shows. Nor can I even get in to why it’s even better when it centers around gymnastics, cheerleading or ice skating. I may hate sports, but there’s something alluring about watching 16-year-old girls working through love and back salto dismounts. There was also that lovely 90 minutes on Skype with Meggles and her two lovely new kittens. Such fuzzy little love balls. I so do wish I could fly to Seattle next week and just make out with all of them (Meggles included). Will someone please give me the money to make that happen? Also give me an extra $150 so I can see OMD in October and Morrissey in November.
It’s my second day of football widowhood. My grand plan is to sweep the floor. I really know how to treat myself right. Later, I hope to visit with Wikus and his super-fast racing bed (seriously, he got a bed with wheels, and there better be a racing stripe and flame decals). The bed is also a couch. It’s like he’s all grown-up now. Maybe I can convince him to watch an episode of Make It or Break It. Did I mention that Candace Cameron is on it, and the show has strong Christian themes, which makes it the trifecta of awesomeness (teens, sports and heavy-handed religion)? Cameron is lecturing the gymnast about how the special bond between a man and a woman, for the Bible tells her so. Don’t worry, she practices what she preaches—she’s a woman, and she is abstinent because she is actually very interested in sex. It’s okay, I just puked in my hand, too.
Health update: I finally stopped bleeding during sex two weeks ago. Hooray! However, now my right ovary is angry, and thinks it is being menaced during intercourse. And yes, my hair is still falling out. Other than that, I am just lovely in all ways. Well, I do have some hangnails, but look, my house isn’t on fire. That’s something.
**Blog title courtesy of Wikus. He should probably just write his own blog already since he is infinitely more interesting.
My man rescues baby squirrels! That’s right, BABY SQUIRRELS! Okay, so far he has only rescued one, but add that to the wee little baby Clementine he rescued back there in April, I think we can all agree that he is a fucking hero, and he’s all mine. Hands off ladies!
Look how teeny and adorable it is? You’re probably peeing yourself right now, and I totally understand. I held it, after all. But wait, it gets cuter!
It kept covering its itty-bitty nose with its tail. I got to hold that cuteness! In my hands! CSP wouldn’t let me put it in my mouth, which I guess makes sense...I guess. I would call him a cold, heartless bastard if he hadn’t shown up at work with a baby squirrel in his shirt pocket. Yes, his shirt pocket! I was running late for a stupid meeting, so I was unable to hatch an elaborate plan to abscond with the squirrel, and I had to let CSP leave to take it to a wildlife-rescue organization.
If that wasn’t awesome enough, CSP is coming over tonight, and on his way he is swinging by the grocery store and getting us food. People, this man brings me a baby squirrel and food. Swoon.
Football is a mystery to me. Growing up I never watched sports except for maybe the Olympics when I was really young, and as I got older I’d probably put on gymnastics or figure skating if there really truly was nothing else to watch (and my idea of something else to watch remains pretty damn liberal in that I have a weakness for terrible TV shows [I spent last Thursday night watching all 10 episodes of Switched at Birth on Netflix]). When I started dating, none of the boys sat around watching sports. Or, if they did, they prioritized sex over watching a game. Such wise boys of my youth.
I do recall one time, on some boring weekend when I was all alone with too much time to kill, I watched some football-themed movie, and by the end of it, I kind of got it, for a moment, but I’m a sentimental fool, and can easily be awash with emotions that aren’t truly mine (yes, fine, I cry during commercials). I don’t even remember the name of that movie, but it was years ago, and it didn’t ignite anything in me other than that momentary spark. The one and only time I actually sat and watched a whole football game was over a decade ago when Wikus and I were in San Diego. That was the longest afternoon of my life, and was only briefly made better by Bananas Foster and lots of beer. (Side note: It just occurred to me that I can thank football for assisting me with losing my virginity, since as a teenager in Texas, saying I was at a football game was a completely plausible excuse, and it was just a short walk from the field to this dude’s house [a few weeks later he was kicked out of Texas for stealing an IROC-Z, and had to go live in Florida with his mother.])
All this to say that I am dating someone who really likes football to this unimaginable-by-me degree. This has my anxiety spiking, and I’m fretting over losing my wonderful summer of Saturdays to a silly (to me) game. A whole stretch of Saturdays for months and months. Saturdays are these golden days of unfettered freedom—they are the only day of the week that don’t have work attached to them in some way. Friday nights I’m tired because I had the burden of Twit and the Ex-Cops and my stupid job in general lying heavily across my shoulders. Sundays are crap because the sinking dread of facing another work week is creeping up on me, making me cranky. Of course Monday through Thursdays are just exercises in trying to convince myself not to take up arms and go on a killing spree (watching crap television helps with that).
When I got laid off in October of 2008, The Boy started scheduling band recordings and rehearsals on Saturdays, which made sense at the time since all my days became Saturdays, not having him around on the actual Saturday didn’t really matter. But, when I landed my current job in February 2009, he didn’t change his schedule—his Saturdays stayed booked, and I was resentful. Thus, these past few months of all-day all-night Saturday fun times have been a bit blissful even if we did nothing exciting, we were together. That’s been incredibly important to me. Now I feel like this closeness will unravel, which is silly, it’s just a day, and if anything, CSP will be happier because football is back in his life, and I may be many things, but apparently, I can’t compete with the feeling he gets watching a bunch of men run around with a ball.
To be clear, I don’t want to change CSP, and I don’t think he wants me to suddenly be in love with football (though, I’m sure that would make things easier), I just wish this shit happened say on a Tuesday night or something. Why does it have to be on Saturdays? I’d even take a Friday night over Saturday. I can easily spend my Friday nights eating popcorn, watching something really pathetically dumb, and going to bed early. That is doable. Whereas Saturday is such a long stretch of time to fill, and I’m incredibly bad at filling time once I’ve exhausted my popcorn, crappy TV and napping options. Somehow, sitting around listening to my Pandora station, eating a late lunch, and having afternoon sex seems almost the same as how I would fill it up on my own, but damn, if it isn’t a really great time when doing it with CSP.
Thankfully, the football watching won’t take place at my house. Yet, I’m a bit torn, in that maybe it would be nice to have it at my place? Good fuck, what the hell am I even saying? This is how much I like this person—I’m contemplating if it would really be so bad to have football on in my living room. Hell yes it would be bad. Terrible. Boring. I’ll be demanding his attention, and I’d be annoyed that I’m not getting it, and he’d be annoyed that I kept getting naked and pressing myself up against the television screen blocking his view of the game. I think I just vomited in my mouth a bit.
Gah. I don’t know. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m anxious. I’m also happy and giddy, but because my brain is so stupid, it thinks the worst, and jumps to conclusions, and I’m already reacting to them even though they haven’t happened yet. Maybe I should just go adopt that awesome fluffy white and orange tabby kitten I saw in PetSmart yesterday afternoon. He’ll surely solve all my problems. Brekkie and Clementine totally need a playmate their age. I should go do that, right? I’m putting my pants on right now, and heading out the door…
When I’m standing on the couch, I am not taller than CSP—I swear I am not abnormally short, and he doesn’t seem that abnormally tall to me, but I’d prefer it if we assume he’s the abnormal one in this equation. I do have abnormally long legs for my height (my father is 6’3” and my mother is 5’2”, and I have his legs and her torso), so when standing on the couch, my crotch hits his stomach, so there really is no advantage to all this couch-standing I’ve been doing, other than it is fun to hug him and look him in the eyes. Otherwise, without the couch’s help, I’m generally just making friendly with his sternum.
Yesterday, during the final night of the Eight Days of JD (basically a really long birthday celebration, which I will indulge when it is someone’s 40th), I was stuck in between two separate, annoying, conversations. To the right I had two ladies discussing kinesiology studies, and to the left I had three men discussing sports. Unfortunately, because I am so desperately broke, I was not drinking, and sucking back water was not making the situation any better. There’s only so many special places in my head I can visit to avoid dealing with the reality of the situation.
What wasn’t helping was how my uterus felt (and still feels) like it was planning its great escape through my vagina, and finding out that someone close to me has Parkinson’s. This revelation was weighing so heavily on me. I was sitting there squeezing my brain in to all sorts of contortions to avoid hearing about rising before the sun to go running, and blah blah blah football blah blah blah, and all I could keep doing was bumping in to the fact that this person whom I care for so much has Parkinson’s, and what does that mean? Five, ten years of a good life left? That is pure motherfucking donkey-tit goat-sucking hairy horse balls bullshit. So, I was a moody bitch at a restaurant last night, and could barely bring myself to play nice during dull conversations. I ate the shit out of some chips and salsa, though.
Today my uterus came a bit closer to obtaining its freedom. I spent most of the day clutching at my stomach and moaning. Sometimes I clutched at my cheeks and moaned, since my allergies seem to be in collusion with my womb. CSP and I finished Skins season four, and oh my god, what the fuck was that about? Those last two episodes made me cringe, and seriously, what the fuck? It was just so damn silly. Then we made our way over to DJ M’s house for a Settlers of Catan smackdown. It was an intense game with six of us and Earl, a spazzy Boston terrier who kept humping the menfolk, and eating various pieces of the game (including my Longest Road card). Between desperate pleas for wood, there were boisterous demands to dominate Earl (this didn’t seem to work, and I suspect it just made his red rocket even harder). I successfully won the game even with all the distractions (so much sandwich making kept happening!), and came home hoping my tampon sentry had done its job. I said goodbye to CSP, and instantly set about doing chores (full of the joy of victory, I had the energy necessary to sweep and dye my hair, which was made more difficult than usual by an eager kitten helper).
Now to finish my night with some Parking Wars. My teeth hurt. All my body parts are rioting. Bastards.
On worrying that my dinner may taste like shit:
CSP: We can have a backup plan.
Grumples: Wendy’s!!
CSP: I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.
Grumples: Yes, it says so in all the commercials, “We’re Wendy’s, your back-up plan when your girlfriend makes a shitty, inedible dinner!”
Thankfully, the dinner was a success, and CSP was sent to work with the leftovers. Hooray!
This morning, while I was lazing about in bed thinking of all the ways I could perhaps maybe get out of work, CSP was in the bathroom having his morning pee when a loud crash happened, followed by giggling. Seems Brekkie really wanted to get on the sink, but is still unable to jump that high (Clementine can do this easily), and tried to take a shortcut by way of the toilet. Since the toilet lid was up to accommodate CSP’s peeing, Brekkie had to make a quick turn to keep from landing in the toilet, and ended up smashing to the floor, upending the water bowl that sits between the counter and the toilet, and somehow knocking down the toilet lid in the process. CSP was still peeing. Now peeing all over a closed toilet. He swears he didn’t walk away from it, but wiped it clean, but I have a feeling I’ll need to bleach down the bathroom when I get home from work.
Last week I finally went and had my bits probed to see why I continue to bleed and bleed and bleed. No polyps were discovered, but they took two vials of my blood to test for various fun things, including every venereal disease known to man (yes, every single last one, which is sort of impressive that they only needed two vials of my precious blood for that). My doctor also looked at my head, grabbed her pearls and fainted dead away at my hideous, balding scalp. When she came to, she said, “Yes, I can really see you’ve lost a lot of hair.” She said it in a very calm voice so as not to alarm me with the obvious.
I was sent on home with a blue piece of paper detailing how in approximately seven days I would be able to check my results online. That was a lie. I eventually had to get a nurse to call me back, who patiently told me how there was nothing wrong with me, everything was normal, and while I could hear her waiting to hear me whoop for joy that I am not HIV positive, nor syphilitic, I did not give her that pleasure, since people, I’m still bleeding in a really not-so-cool way, and at least an eighth of my hair fell out on to the laptop just while typing this post. (I believe the weight of which broke my “T” key.) I asked the nurse what am I supposed to do next, and she was like, why, child, what’s wrong with you…do you have DISCHARGE?
Heavy sigh.
Why’s he looking so worried? He has plenty of hair, and doesn’t even have a vagina.
When I’m not busy mopping up after myself, I have been taking advantage of my custody rights, and visiting my children. The kittens are still shy brats, but I managed to corner Horchata, and forced him to submit to pets until he purred. P2 just hid behind a curtain, and stared at me in terror. He’s the size of a miniature pig, so I don’t know what his problem is.
Here he is not bothering to even pretend that he’s been practicing the trumpet. He begged and begged for us to let him take lessons, and look what we have here.
At least he lives with his father, because I simply would not be able to deal with that shit. Do you know how much money we spent on that horn? He doesn’t even have the mouthpiece facing the right way. He’s been playing it with his ass to amuse his brother—I just know it.
Damn kids.
Listening to the A Clockwork Orange soundtrack in the car has always made me a bit of a reckless driver. I just can’t help myself. That little surly teenager surfaces. This habit hasn’t caused any wrecks…yet. I just go a little too fast given the road and traffic conditions—I’m too busy paying more attention to the music than I am my surroundings. Listening to certain songs by the Wedding Present causes the same problems. I blame CSP for playing this really great recording of Beethoven’s Ninth the other night when we went to bed. So, if I die in some fiery crash this week, go arrest him.
Before getting in my car this morning to zip in and out of traffic on that whole one-mile commute I have (yes, I realize it is shameful to drive to work when I could walk or ride a bike, but have you seen that hill that sits between my place and the office?), I found myself, in my head, listing books I hate. I think this stemmed from a friend’s call-out on Facebook to give him some reading recommendations, and someone suggested Banana Yoshimoto’s Kitchen. I hate that book. I hate that book so much that the person who gave it to me to read stopped talking to me, because I was that vehement in my hatred (so many angry red-inked notes in the margin!). Thus, here is Grumples’ Reviled Book List:
These books were all recommended to me, and in most cases actually given as gifts. I often give my favorite books to my friends as presents, and I’m well aware that there are books I adore, books that are as close to me as family and friends, that people despise (like The Time Traveler’s Wife and Master and Margarita). That’s just the way it is; so, if you love the books on my list, eh well, we can still be friends, I will only make fun of you a little bit. By which I mean, a lot, but only behind your back, and only a little to your face.
Here we are, eight hours later. It was a tiring day. People kept calling, and annoying the snot out of me (I’m full of allergies, so only a small poke will get the snot flowing). Here are three fine examples of who I have the pleasure of working with on a daily basis:
Lately, I’ve been so resentful at work. All of the above really illustrates why. There are many wonderful people at my job, but I rarely get the chance to interact with them. Instead, I get the above fun good times. The first one would have been amusing if the other two had not also happened. The second one is the most frequent insult. I work for an organization that prizes longevity over actual skills, and thus someone can make $25/hr more than me, and yet can’t manage to modify a form in Excel. Pathetic. The last one is the hardest in that I know people are just trying to be friendly, but fuck, I just don’t give a shit about your encounters with tattooed people. Why would I possibly care about a stranger’s creepy portrait tattoos? Sigh.
Thus, after extending the pain of my day a bit at the grocery store, I came home, made mac-n-cheese from a box (thanks to some fond reminiscing with Nauticalina over such orange delights), and started my first episode of Parking Wars, because it is important for me to watch other people with shitty jobs to validate my own life.
This shit is about to get all turned around with a Skype date with Meggles in seven minutes. I can always count on her to make me feel warm and gooey on the inside.
It’s been one of those days where I’ve been in such a fantastic mood that I have to keep checking to see if it is Friday, because I just feel so wonderful. And, to prove how awesome my mood is, I don’t even get upset when I discover it isn’t Friday at all! I have no explanation for this mood, especially since my allergies have been so bad that I am experiencing pain when I move my jaw due to my Eustachian tubes being so swollen (enough with the close-your-mouth-already jokes!). There’s a lot of snot, sneezing and itchy, red eyes to make me grumpy, but it’s so not working. Ha ha. Fuck you, allergies!
Last night, Nauticalina and her brother came over to play Settlers of Catan. I have never met her brother, and he’s a swell fellow. He’s in the army, and seriously, that’s too bad, because I grew quite fond of him rather quickly, and I would like to see more of him around these parts, but no, he’ll be headed somewhere at some point, and who knows when I’ll see him again. He took amazingly quick to Settlers (he’s a smarty pants just like his older sis), which was a relief because I have played with certain people who still don’t really get the game. Not ol’ Powder (I didn’t come up with that, he provided it, but it’s pretty apt), he won game three (I won games one and two, and Nauticalina got all snippy with me, and I swear at no point was I being condescending as she claimed). Then we watched that really rad episode of Doctor Who season two with the Face of Bo (you want to hear true DW nerds talk, listen to those two discuss the plot of an episode instead of just watching the damn show).
Later, when I was all sound asleep, I got a text from CSP, and I tried multiple times to respond, but I was too tired, and kept drifting off with phone in hand, only to wake up later with my fingers cramped and numb clutching the phone. I finally was able to shoot a reply off at 5:30a; however, when I read what I wrote at 7a, I had a good laugh. Oh auto-correct and sleepy-time texting! All I’m going to tell you is that if you are half-asleep, and trying to write the word “goodnight,” it may come out as “goosing.”
While at work, I made plans to see my dear friend Hepburn (I may have called her different things over the years, but every time I think of her name, I think of a discussion from long ago about how to pronounce her name, and I remember trying to do a throaty Hepburn impression of it) who has been missing from my life for several months now. She’s going to come over and sweat her tits off in my concrete block of color. She promises to bring beverages. ERCOT is threatening rolling brownouts, so maybe I will convince her to strip down, and go pantsless for the environment—she may have to since I just set the thermostat on 90°. She’ll be here any minute now.
When I walked through my gate (noting how dried-out the morning glories looked even though I’ve been watering them nightly), there was a package on my stoop. Ivy Vyne has been promising some prezzies, and boy did she deliver.
Check this out:
Fishsicle and Chinese Fortune Fish pillows! I have such awesomely creative friends.
That look of worry on Brekkie’s face is not over the pillows, but rather he heard a rumor he is getting his balls chopped off on Saturday. It’s totally true. Shhh!
It’s 105° outside, and 91° inside. I believe I just heard half of you wilting with tongues lolling and back of hand to forehead as you pass out on your fainting couches. It truly doesn’t feel that hot in here—if I had some extra cash, I’d buy some fancy digital thermometer to independently verify my thermostat’s reading. It probably isn’t wrong, and my body is insane. This laptop on my thighs does feel excessively hot, however. Anyway. The point is it is broiling outside, and the power grid in Texas is struggling. The Electric Reliability Council of Texas (ERCOT) has called for companies and residences to conserve power between 3-7p today. I feel I’m already doing my part by having my air conditioner set to 87°, but to show that I am the type of generous person who always goes that extra mile, I plan to go pantsless the rest of the night.
Looking for a way to make me bawl whilst driving home? Have me listen to a story on NPR about retired military service dogs. I haven’t cried that hard in the car since going off my meds in January. Those poor animals, and to think, they used to be euphemistically “retired” as a thank you for their years of actually serving in a war. Ugh. Though, I guess, considering the shell-shocked men and women who return from the front lines, and how difficult it is for many of them to fully cope with every day life, maybe it is better to euthanize the dogs. That makes me puke in my mouth a bit to think that way, but perhaps it is a kindness. I don’t know. It’s so hard to know how much an animal can process what’s happened to it. The military is giving these dogs more options like adoption, but the priority still isn’t the dog per se—the story cites, “The adoption priority process is to first use the dog as a training aid for other handlers. Law enforcement agencies are second in line. Then, families who have lost a loved one in combat, followed by former handlers, and the general public.” I would think adoption by a former handler would be the most beneficial for the dog and service person. I know these dogs really enjoy being workers, so maybe staying in a program as a training aid is not as awful as it seems to me. I do think it is cruel to put the former handlers at the bottom of the priority list.
Yesterday, at work, there was this lil’ lady, a 7-week-old toy Chihuahua.
She’s a wee thing, a pure bred with a tail that doesn’t curl, so the breeders were going to put her down because no one would pay the $50 for her. Imagine, killing this puppy because her tail is fantastically crooked instead of curled. I hate people. I really, truly hate people. Luckily, a woman I work with rescued her, and is basically fostering her until she can find a really loving home. She leaned hard on me. I almost caved. Almost.
Unfortunately, I cannot adopt her. It would be so foolish to do so. Even though she obviously loves me, and wants me to be her mother. I am basically living paycheck to paycheck right now, and there’s just no way I can support a dog. I know her and Brekkie would have had magnificent times rolling around on the floor together, licking each other, and playing Scrabble. Sigh. Damn my poorness. The Bear isn’t even aware that he just dodged a bullet. He would have been so angry. He already bleats his disapproval at Brekkie and Clementine. He’s like a curmudgeonly uncle—always bopping them on the head, and shaking a meaty paw at them.
Bootie emergency today. I’ve plain worn out my Fluevog booties, and the bottom rubber bit of the heel came off this afternoon at work. I spent the rest of the day having a minor freak out, fretting that I would lose the piece before I managed to make it home. Thankfully, I was able to keep it in place, and used the awesome, multipurpose, magical Weldbond glue. The surgery was a success. I highly recommend always having a bottle of this stuff at your disposal.
The day is saved. And I’m still pantsless.
Seventeen days of George. Do you know what that’s like? We always complain about how little control we have over our bodies—how they break down, expand and contract, wrinkle and crunch and blemish, but this daily leaking without end is insulting. And tiring. Just when I think my uterus has shed its last bit of lining (there is, after all, a drought happening, triple-digit heat for days on end, my body should get the hint, and follow suit), there will be a new tint of pink or orange besmirching my clothes and toilet paper.
Is it some combination of being a sterilized female who is suddenly having more sex than she has had in years? I’ve been avoiding asking that question directly, and refuse to turn to Google. What if the answer is yes? How exactly would I proceed?
Getting to know each other:
Me: We can visit the house I lived at on Wanda Lane.
CSP: Wanda Lane! That’s your porn name right there. The whole name, first and last.
Me: Yes, my life has been a series of embarrassments.
I did live in Flower Mound after all.
Another Saturday spent in the sun has left me tanner than I have been since I was a child. I can’t keep applying the sunblock fast enough, and thus, my shoulders are brown, and my arms have taken on a dirty pall. There are several reasons I don’t tan, mostly having to do with wanting to look pretty until the day I die, and I find that I do not darken in a pleasing, rich way like most people. I just look dusty, like I’ve been rolling around in barren fields, like I need to be taken out back and beaten with a stick to release the dirt to the wind. Yet, I’m having such a great time out on the water, that I’m going to let my vanity take a bit of a knocking. At least I don’t look like CSP who is so painfully red that the heat coming off his body kept waking me up last night. He does not complain and whine as I would, and even lets me touch him, where I would be demanding he keep his bloody paws off of me, thank you very much. He also brought me a hot dog last night. That, and in so many other ways, I adore this man.
Yesterday Brekkie received his last round of vaccinations. At one point, the vet reached down, felt his balls, and exclaimed, “He can be fixed at any time now!”
No, really?!
All this fun in the sun I’ve had this weekend has left me as a drained husk with an upset stomach. That could also be the allergies talking. Or, it’s the bbq plate I had at a benefit event I attended this afternoon . Either way, CSP and I took a poorly timed nap, and suddenly it was 8pm, and the weekend was over. Sigh. It was time for CSP and Clementine to head southbound home.
This past week I was on special assignment, which I am not at liberty to discuss (damn those confidentiality agreements), and it left me beyond exhausted. It involved a lot of walking—walking that included stairs, with free carb-loaded lunches that had everyone feeling sluggish in the afternoons. By Thursday night, I was in bed by 6:30pm, and when it was over at the end of Friday, the best I could do was shuffle along side CSP at the grocery store lightly whining as he picked out a dinner for us (hot dogs!).
Yesterday, after much sleeping and frolicking, we drove out to Kingsland, TX where we hung out on Lake LBJ with some of CSP’s friends (including the daughter of one of them, and her two friends—lounging around with three gorgeous 16-year-old girls in our bikinis is a humbling experience). The lake was very shallow where the pontoon boat anchored, and so there wasn’t really any swimming—more like kneeling on my knees on the sandy bottom (that sounded wicked dirty, but there was next to no sexy times out there in the water—there were teenagers watching after all) letting the water lap about my body in the most soothing, cooling way. I rode my first wave runner (which, if I understand correctly, is the wimpy little brother to the jet ski), but I didn’t drive it. I’m just not that brave.
Last night, we hauled our sun-dazzled asses over to our friends, where we watched Goonies out on their porch. We brought a bucket of fried chicken, ate tons of popcorn (after several months of popping corn by hand on the stove, microwave popcorn tastes nasty to me), and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We ran home, got all handsy, and passed out surrounded by some kittens.
Then there was today, which was mostly good (for reasons I won’t go in to because it will just sound all mushy, and then all of us will be puking in our hands at how soft I’ve become). There was a particularly low, low point, and while it was happening, I thought of all the different ways I would write about it. It was so thoroughly upsetting, but really, after such a fantastic weekend otherwise, I think I should just get over it, and let it go. It’s the old complaint of strangers feeling they have the right to touch me, grab at me, simply because I have tattoos. It makes me so angry.
Ahem.
The benefit was for Julie Ann Gonzalez, who went missing on 3/26/10. I know this blog doesn’t exactly have the largest audience, but please do hit the link for further information. It’s a sad story, and the case is basically cold. Typical police bullshit, and all that. Repost as you see fit. Thank you!
There’s a kitten sleeping behind my ass. I’m drinking Newcastle, and have a kitten sleeping behind my ass. That is what you call a perfect moment. It was a very long day—one that involved entirely too much stairs, and a lot of sitting and waiting. In a high school. I spent my damn day in a high school. There was a lunch break, and when I walked in to that cafeteria, I completely panicked for a second, and thought I was actually a teenager at a new school on my first day. God. What a horrific thought. I got over it quickly, and found myself the cool-kids’ table, and ate a breadstick (it’s all I had time for). I get to do this for another four days. I’m bringing a book the rest of the week (and it won’t be no damn Ken Follett, I’ll tell you that).
Yesterday I had my first visitation rights with the children at the Ex’s. Wikus is taking care of them What’s His Butt is out of the country. Don’t worry, I received permission to actually be in the house, and I didn’t do anything obscene like poop in the bed, or stow some stinky cheese in the blankets in his bass drum (Frijole: Are these items on your list?). I took off my shoes, and was militant in my coaster usage. I didn’t snoop, but I did look at his “purple” studio, which is quite neat and tidy, but really more of a pinky-lavender than a purple, but hey, if he’s happy, then good for him. The kittens actually came out to see me, which was a bit shocking, but more so was how they are no longer kittens, but actually very fat cats. Who are these chunky beasts?
And of course, their gay mommy, the one who must have taught them all that he knows (which is basically to consume kibble as if each bit is the last he’ll ever receive).
I actually cried when Mattress came up and head-butted me on the leg. He climbed in my arms purring and drooling. I miss him so very much. It’s so unfair that I can’t see him daily. Sure, seeing the kittens was nice, but I don’t miss them exactly. They spent most of their time under the bed, and I got to grab Horchata’s tail as he sped by me in completely terror. Such skittish creatures—especially considering that I think they could easily tackle me, knock my homework to the ground, twist my nipples, and make fun of my mother.
I just put on The Sheltering Sky, and my first thoughts are, “Damn, did John Malkovich always have such lovely long, curled eyelashes?” Or is it just the African sunlight?
Life has been a bit aggravating over the past few days. Namely my air conditioner decided that it was too hot outside, and it was high time for a strike; George came nine days early, and announced himself during an intimate moment; and now Netflix is separating out its streaming and mail service, and thus effectively raising the cost by $6/month (60%!). Each of these items would cause me to be grumpy, and taken together as a lump-sum insult has left me feeling drained, and ill-prepared to deal with life. Sure doesn’t take much to knock me down, does it?
The AC is now fixed, and my house has gone from 100° (I am not exaggerating) last night to 85° this morning (a temperature I purposefully set my thermostat at). I did not stick around for the great cool down, and chose to spend the night at CSP’s—all the while feeling terribly guilty that the cats were becoming sticky, hairy puddles on the floor (I left them a huge bowl of ice water). I’m sure ET wasn’t too happy either even if he does spend a majority of his day outside in extremely hot weather; he often has shade and a breeze to enjoy, which his terrarium sadly does not emulate.
Two nights at CSP’s has left me feeling a bit adrift, and almost staggeringly exhausted. I’ve obviously become spoiled to living by myself. To be clear, I am not pooping on CSP’s generosity in having me stay over while my place melted—he is awesomely sweet and kind, and I hope I can abuse him some more in the future (I have a text message that pretty much gives me an open invitation to stay at his place as needed—I’m just not sure our definitions of “as needed” are the same). It’s just that I’ve grown quite used to a) going to bed at some preposterously early time for someone who does not have children, and b) going to bed in complete silence. Neither of these conditions can be met at CSP’s. Heck, we didn’t even have dinner until after 10pm the first night, and 9pm the second night. I’m generally fed by 6pm, and contemplating bed by 8pm (even if I don’t actually go to bed until around 11pm, I’ve still spent 3 hours seriously considering it, and letting my body relax in such a way that it pretty much already assumes I am asleep).
While CSP made my head drum a bit with dub beats, his roommate and friend were playing with their Kinect, and listening to who knows what, which was pretty much like sitting in a bowling alley at a dance club. Even before I wanted to be sleeping, it was still just so loud, and busy. The most action that happens at my place is Brekkie chasing around some paper on the floor, or trying to land on the Bear’s back by performing a flying-squirrel maneuver off of the table.
Don’t even get me started on how I felt when the Magic: The Gathering cards were pulled out, and discussed at length. I pretty much had to catch my eyes from rolling on to the floor. Have I mentioned there was also a bong involved during all of this? No, I did not stumble in to a frat house. I know how it sounds. This is why I do not have roommates. I just can’t make myself put up with this to save a few hundred a month. However, I will gladly put up with it for a couple of nights to escape heat exhaustion, and to play with CSP. He’s a good one. And apparently, he was only a smidge tired of me after four straight nights of being around me. Score!
Before this unfortunate series of events, I had Ivy Vyne in town, and the closest we came to death was sweltering in the heat while shopping on South Congress. That was quickly rectified by swimming in Barton Springs. Though, we did almost lose our eyesight when we were subjected to an old man and his banana hammock (which at one point he actually pulled aside and check in on his junk, as if he was worried it had scampered off when he wasn’t paying attention; later, he just removed the small strip of cloth all together and draped it over his penis—I’m sure to avoid pesky tan lines).
There was a lot of drinking involved, and DJ M and CSP were around for most of her visit. We all had such a smashing time, especially that one midnight in the kiddie pool in the backyard eating cherries, drinking beer, and listening to Young Marble Giants. How the four of us didn’t end up making out under such perfect conditions will forever remain a mystery.
We also had a geeky girls’ night at Cowhide’s for Settlers of Catan (I pretty much lost, and for once, was not bratty about it). Then there was that night of playing pool at Barfly’s where CSP showed us how he knew his way around a table (I texted with Cattleboy to whine a bit about how no one was letting me win), Ivy Vyne got hit on by a man named Sonny (we held his betting money in our bras, but declined his offer of drinks—except CSP who won a free beer when Sonny sunk the 8 ball way too soon), and managed to find 15 songs on the jukebox that we wanted to hear, but ended up being too drunk to sit all the way through.
Her last day was spent in San Antonio at the zoo. It was crazy hot, and most of the animals were having none of it, and hid indoors. This zoo is particularly heavy on birds, and boy did we see a lot of birds. However, I’ll be kind and only provide one bird photo.
Clementine finally earned her keep this weekend, and it all happened while I was passed out from alcohol and heat exhaustion. Ivy Vyne and Wikus were up late having probably their longest conversation to date (they’ve known each other for at least 15+ years), and there was a kerfuffle in the bathroom, and roach legs everywhere. That little Clem was pulling the legs off of a rather large roach (I’m not sure if I would be happier if it was a new roach, or if it was the same roach living with me all this time!), and rolling him around in her mouth. Wikus, in a rare evil turn for him, tossed the poor, legless thing outside to fend for itself (there’s a happy, lazy grackle out there full of roach guts).
This post may seem like it ended suddenly, and that is because Blue came over with beers and cider, and we sat in the kiddie pool drinking, and talking about boys and life. I love that lady. Now it is time for bed.
The past two weeks I’ve been assisting various work groups with interviewing employees. This is something I honestly love doing. I most prefer it to my regular job. However, what I do not like is interviewing a person when there is a 2” cockroach roaming around on the floor behind him (the interviews were taking place in an industrial setting). I find that extremely distracting, and am more worried about finding the closest points of egress than listening to Mr. Applicant discuss his qualifications. Sitting on my legs through a whole interview also makes me cranky, but what if that roach decides to crawl up my pants leg? Then where would we be? Out the motherfucking door, I’ll tell you that much.
It makes me cry a bit on the inside knowing how terribly infantile and girly that makes me to lose my cool during an interview. Especially when I get all pissy when an applicant made a crack about having his boss pay for my pedicure when he was demonstrating a mechanical skill as part of his interview (it involved him teaching me how to replace belts on a piece of machinery). Hi! I scream at the sight of a roach, but don’t you dare get all sexist on me when it comes to my goddamn fingernails! He did not get offered the position—I swear it had nothing to do with his comment. I’m a professional!
After work yesterday, I visited with EM. It’s been a long time. I bet you forgot she existed. That’s what happens when someone improves her station in life—she makes more money and is busier. Bitch. After catching her up on almost three months of happenings, we hugged and I ran home to put ET outside so he could get some sun on his back.
Driving home, I thought of Blue. I didn’t get to chat with her all day, which left me feeling a bit dreary. I thought about how she has twice brought me flowers. I love her for that. I know no other person who brings flowers for no reason at all. She’s brilliantly sweet like that. I get to see her tonight. Perhaps I’ll think of something lovely to bring her—if I knew how, and had a few more hours left to fritter away, I’d make her a thousand origami cranes, and shower her with them when she opened the door. I think that would express my love quite nicely.
Or I can just answer the door sans pants.
The AC in my car is intermittently working. It’s been in the triple digits and I own a black car. I may complain all the time about how cold buildings are, and that my thermostat is currently set on 86, but no AC in the car is even a bit much for me to bear.
Ivy Vyne is coming for a visit (YES!), and she told me she is fine with this situation. I think it might be better if she reserved judgment. I’m worried that her delicate New England skin is going to melt right off her, and I’ll be driving her bones around town this weekend. At least I won’t have to worry about accidental drowning, if she’s already dead before I get her in to a river.
CSP kindly came over last night and mucked around behind my glovebox (that is not a euphemism…in this case) where there is some filter, which he cleaned for me (Side story: Last week I ate some crackers I had stored in my glovebox, and I almost fainted from the foul taste of exhaust, and now knowing there is this filter existing directly behind the glovebox certainly explains a lot). The filter was barely dirty, just a couple leaves and seeds; thus, we both agreed it probably wasn’t causing the problem. All the same, it was really cute watching him grapple with the glovebox.
Last week saw the successful passing of another birthday for Wikus. He was feted in style, by which I mean he was given many fine gifts (Blue’s being the best since she picked items up from an Asian grocery store like squid crackers and a blue drink that warned, “A white poeder at the bottom is not a default. Please agitate slowly.”), and all the alcohol he could swallow (always an impressive amount). Sadly, this liquor consumption left Wikus quite hung-over on Saturday and he could not make it to the Urban Family Get-Together at C&L’s, which was a shame because it was very well attended.
The theme was food cooked with booze, which is harder than cheese themed, but obviously very popular with our group of friends. I left the cooking up to CSP (my role in the kitchen is to stand around looking pretty, which everyone agrees I do quite well), and he did a magnificent job with a scotch-maple chicken (the recipe couldn’t be easier, yet, I bet I’ll never make it on my own). At the party people kept exclaiming how wonderful the chicken was, and asking who brought it. And yes, that was my hand that shot up in the air—not my fault that CSP was too busy watching soccer in the other room to lay claim to his accomplishments.
I got drunk too quickly (who do I blame for this, because I really felt kind of cheated?), and had to go home early. Thankfully I had a ride, and actually, it all ended quite well considering that there are so many fuzzy bits to my memory. There may have been a bit of pot-valour involved, which was just a matter of being honest about my feelings. Luckily, they weren’t squashed, and I went to bed a very happy, and tipsy, lady.
Let’s do things the easy way tonight, and go for a list:
Time for an anatomy lesson! Today we’re going to discuss the maxillary sinuses, and how much they can ruin my day. Here’s an illustration to give you an idea of where they are located (this is for those of you who’d rather not use your wee brains on a Friday to suss out what “maxillary” means):
(No, that is not me. Though, those eyebrows could have been mine in high school before I learned of the magic of plucking.)
Even though the evil folks at pollen.com say it is a “low” pollen day, I can only assume they are implying that those of us who feel the way I do are paranoid hypochondriac types who just like to complain. I swear to you, there is nothing low about today’s levels. I don’t know what is out there, but it is making my teeth ache in a pitiful way. That deep valley of the maxillary sinus sits right on my upper teeth, and when the sinus is all swollen, my face not only feels like I’ve been hit with a bag of bricks (ala Heavenly Creatures!), but my teeth, oh god, my teeth feel as if someone is ever so slowly extracting them for no good damn reason at all. Feel sorry for me. Thank you.
Speaking of hideous high-school eyebrows, my lovely aunt sent me a fatty stack of family photos. She asked me first if I wanted them, knowing that they could dredge up unwanted emotions. Which, so true, but yes, I wanted to see them. And, oh, man. There were so many I had never seen before—like of my mother as a child and young adult (wow, I never realized how much I do look like that mousy, plain woman—quick, more mascara and cleavage!), but a lot of them were ones I knew well, and had hoped had magically disintegrated over time. I was such a cute sausage baby, then around 10 years of age, shit went wrong, really really really wrong. For seven terrible years I suffered as an ugly duckling. What an unfortunate mess of features! And the hair! At one point I was going for a comb-over, except I was the opposite of bald and had tight kinky hair. The hair is parted about an inch above my left ear. My sexy, large-framed rose-tinted plastic glasses really give the look some panache that I’m not sure most 12 year olds can pull off like I apparently could. The braces gave me a special twinkle, and oh, my skinny legs and blousy boxy shirts. Even in later years when I had my hair somewhat under control, why was I not plucking? How was I getting laid? Thank you gentlemen of my teens for looking past all that. Oh, you just wanted to stick in in to anything, and I could have had a bag over my head for all you cared? Huh.
Anyway. There’s a lot of adorableness to be had like my sister and I as toddlers. My mom was apparently obsessed with handmade, matching outfits, even though we were not twins. She also liked my hair in pigtails composed of one very long, thick curl on each side, tied up with a thick, furry yarn ribbon. As a newborn, I looked like a vaguely Asian troll, which is to say, I looked like most newborns but I boasted a black 3” mohawk. I was born awesome.
There are very few pictures of my father, but he’s lurking in a some of them. He looks like a hitman from the ‘70s with his penchant for ugly browns, evil moustache and thick black glasses. As far as I am aware, he has never killed anyone (for hire or otherwise); he’s just a different sort of monster—hide your women and children when he’s around. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Also, it seems my mom has sported the same hairstyle since she was a preteen. Some years it was just a bit poofier than others. Imagine, decades upon decades of the exact same cut.
It’s been a bad week for many of my friends. A lot of my energy has gone toward doling out tough-love advice, driving them hither and yonder, loaning money, listening, hugging, and in general, just being there for them. Some of their stories are juicy (car crashes, felonies, alcoholism, rehab, rejection rejection rejection!), they are not mine to tell. That’s about all I’ve done this week. I kind of sort of started a mosaic (if you count just pulling out two shards of glass from my shards-of-glass bucket as starting a mosaic), and managed to cut my foot in the process (pantsless mosaicing is safer than barefoot mosaicing it seems). I finally put my desktop computer together and discovered all my missing music files. Hooray! There hasn’t been a lick of work to do at the office, so it’s been a painfully long week.
Whoopis died half a year ago, and I’m ready to get his paddy paw print tattooed on me tonight. My grief is still so deep for that little furry one. How can it really have been six months ago? It’s still such a sharp pain within me when I think about him. So far Brekkie has Whoopis’ sweet disposition. Such a little, gentle dear. He never uses his claws, even when he does a flying tackle at my knees. Oh, children.
Today is supposed to be 104. Even I melt in such heat. Time to lounge in the kiddie pool. Remind me to get a pool boy to skim the dead skeeters off the surface.
