Kitten Under Glass

A few days ago, Kenny put the kitten in the oven and scared the fucking hell out of him. 

We know at whom's doorstep the blame shall be laid when the kitten is in years of therapy.

You probably need a few more details to the whole "kitten in the oven" sentence, huh, Reader. 

It's not quite as bad as it sounds. Don't call the APL. 

My Mister was showing me how these new oven rack protector thingies (from the makers of the OveGlove) wrap around the front of the baking racks to protect you from burns whilst getting things in and out of the oven. 

Curiousity, thy name is Kitty. 

He peered in. And then jumped in the not-on/don't-be-silly/we-don't-really-cook-here oven to check it out. 

And then My Mister said, "hahah, hahah let's close the door!"  And I said, "hahah, hahah, okay!"

And all manner of crazy cat hell broke loose. 

He wasn't in the shut-the-door-oven for 2 seconds. Not even. 

And when we opened it, he hopped out so fast, and then hopped down the hallway to the bedroom, with his tail tucked between his legs, literally hopping like a bunny rabbit. 

We thought he'd gotten something stuck in the door, but he was just scared. 

We flew into action. Scooped him up with a body smash of love, all the while I was shouting, "We need to Eternal Sunshine his mind, quick!!" And we picked up his string and engaged him in some romps. 

He was half-hearted at first, but then got into the game. Thank goodness.  We continued to apologize and smother him in affection for several days after. I mean, more smothering than normal. On a normal day he gets quite a bit of smothering attention.

My Mister said that yesterday the kitty jumped on the stove. As if to say, "Fuck You, Stove! I fear you not! Nobody Puts Baby in the Oven!" It was the first time he's really paid any attention to the stove since the Incident of 2012.

I think he'll recover. But if not, we know what the trigger point was if he ends up pooping all over the floor one day in retribution. 

The End. 

A Christmas Story

The Friday before Christmas I was sent to Tiny Town's fulfillment center to sort and pack jewelry. Because my job is just chock full of opportunities like that, and now I can add that to my resume, although I'm not sure exactly what "that" is. 

I do know one thing. I suck at "that." I'm not very quick at all with packing jewelry up to send to customers. And I felt like an asshole because while I was doing it the thought, "this if fucking up my fresh manicure" ran right through my mind. It was a hoity thought, considering this is those folks everyday job.  

I'm willing to step up and help however is needed. But I was a little bit concerned about being sent to the FC - which is a hour and a half from home - on the Friday before Christmas weekend with snowstorm warnings being broadcast. 

I knew going down there it wasn't going to end well. I almost - ALMOST - packed a bag. But then remained optomistic that all would end well. 

It didn't, for a number of reasons. First, the huge shipment of jewelry I was sent down to help assort & pack? Didn't show up, because it was coming from Chicago and was waylaid by a day due to the snowstorm that hit them right before it made it's way to us. So while I did some minor shit on the floor while we waited for final word about the shipment, I didn't do what I had gone down there to do. 

And by the time we got the final word that the shipment wouldn't make it until Saturday? It was rush hour and blizzardy. 

Twenty minutes into my ride home I pulled into a gas station and asked The Car and The Phone to find the nearest hotel. My Mister was relieved, he was worried even though I had his sturdy SUV. 

Several hotels came up, which were 8 miles away, and I wasn't sure I could make it 8 miles. The closest thing to my gas station location was The Rocking Horse Inn. I hesitated, but then called. 

No one answered. 

I tried three more times and no one answered, so finally I did as "Bob" encouraged and left a message.

I went to the dollar store to get a toothbrush and a magazine and a bottle of wine. And Doritos. That's my go-to comfort snack. That cheesy goodness comforts me. 

As I was looking for toothbrushes, Bob returned my call. He had a room available, told me he had a "hospitality pack" so I didn't need to buy anything if I didn't want to, and gave me some directions. He told me he'd leave the porch light on. 

I was hesitant, but resigned. I could have been walking right into a creepy horror-story scenario. But after my SUV slid through two stop signs I had no choice. 

I slid down the street and the car told me I had arrived at my destination. Except I couldn't quite believe my eyes, because my destination appeared to be a huge Victorian house all twinklie with Christmas lights and decorations. And I didn't know where to park. 

I called Bob back. He came out on the porch and waved me over, yes, it was the right house, pull down the side street and park next to his cars. 

Bob asked a lot of questions, what I was doing in town, etc., why I needed a last-minute room with no luggage (he hadn't been watching the news), but must have deemed me "legit" pretty quickly because when he told me he only accepted cash or check, I had a crestfallen look on my face and he said, "Well, you can mail a check to me once you get back home."  

My faith in humanity was restored just a little. And by some dumb luck, I had my checkbook in my purse - which I never, ever carry - except for last week. So I was able to promptly pay.

I was his only houseguest for the evening.

Bob toured me around the house and told me the history of the home, and invited me to make myself at home with anything that wasn't locked up. He pointed out the Keurig,assorted snacks, homemade pumpkin bread, a fridge full of wine and beer, a hot tub on the back porch that I was welcome to use - swimsuit optional (he had a couple suits there to use if needed, or he told me to just tell him I'm in it and he wouldn't come back there) - showed me the library with books,  a master bath with a jacuzzi tub that I was welcomed to indulge in, and finally led me to my dollhouse of a room. It had a private bath, so no need to fret that I had to use a communal bathroom for pooping. That was always my fear with a B&B.

Dinner consisted of a salami sandwich, hardboiled egg, Doritos and wine. Dinner isn't normally included in the B&B experience but he was more than generous. It was delicious.

While I was milling about the house, a young and snow-covered couple slid up the front porch and asked if there was any availability. 

Bob and I thought they looked a little sketchy and they left once we informed him we only accepted cash or check. Bob didn't offer to let them mail it in. Once they left, Bob told me he thought they looked like college-kid partiers, and they smelled like cigarettes, so he wasn't too thrilled to accommodate them.

However, they went into town and got cash. Told us (see how it's quickly become mine & Bob's house??) how their tires were just too bad to make it about 10 minutes up the road to home. We let them stay in our house, and I thought this was part of our Christmas good-will towards man. They didn't get the grand tour of the house, but were quiet enough and didn't disturb me while I was taking a jacuzzi soak, reading magazines and drinking beers. 

I curled up into my fresh, clean sheets, all soft and warm from wine and jacuzzi and slept contentedly and happily as the snow flurried outside. 

In the morning Bob had prepared an egg & ham souffle, had a place setting for me ready with a bowl of fresh berries and the morning newspaper. 

The house looked a little less welcoming in the harsh morning light, but imagine this twinkling with lights at night. I had never stayed at a B&B before, but have to admit I think I enjoyed it because it was unexpected and I had a much-needed recharge. 

It was the best bad-luck ending of my entire year, finding The Rocking Horse Inn during a snowstorm. And all was right with the world. 

Two Thousand Words

Because sometimes there just are no suitable words, I give you two pictures of one that I  love.

Kitten as Liam Neesom, to Tree: "You will be climbed." 

Kitten as Tree Hugger Activist:

And I am thankful for my boring and predictable life, filled with cuteness of little soft & warm bodies that I love. 

They Took Neil Diamond to Heart

I've shaken off my funk! I still don't have the Christmas abounding yet at the home, but I feel motivated to get it accomplished this week. 

Tiny Town had its Christmas party this week. 

They set up tables in our conference room and catered. It was fine. One of the muckety-mucks spoke.  He speech consisted of something along the lines of, "this is the time you should all feel good about how hard you've worked all year! But you shouldn't, because business stinks." 

Really.  That was the our holiday party message, if not the actual language used. 

And then our holiday "gift" is the gift of allowing us to wear jeans to work until January. 

People applauded. 

They've really got us conditioned, don't they? To be thrilled about the sort of attire we can put on our legs. 

Maybe I'm just a soured old puss, but I couldn't give a fuck about wearing jeans or not. It's easier getting dressed in the morning. But as my holiday treat for busting my ass day in and day out? I can wear jeans. Yay?

They must really believe, "Money talks, but it can't sing and dance...blah blah, I'd much rather be forever in blue jeans."

I'd much rather be having a long chat with Money. 

Funky Cold

I'm in a bit of a funk lately, Reader. I hate to blame the holidays. I think it's more related to the lack of sunshine alighting upon my person. Even though we've had some beautiful days for a Cleveland winter, I have missed them due to long days at Tiny Town. 

So I'm stuck in a funk. And it's hard to dislodge from it. 

Yesterday I had Saturday unfurled at my feet and couldn't even muster the gumption to make New Year's Eve plans. Don't even mention Christmas shopping to me. That hasn't even started yet.  No tree up, no cards purchased let alone written, no gumption to even make the house organized enough for to get excited to Christmas it up.  I'm entertaining the thought of skipping it all together, but the kitteh has never seen a Christmas tree and I feel bad denying him this little bit of joy he doesn't even know awaits.  So I will try.

This morning we discovered Kitty Purry took a shit in the bathtub. 

No, we don't know why. That's just par for the course around here. Sometimes it's just a good idea to shit in the tub. 

Pleasantry.

Happy Monday, Reader! We had a nothing-exciting weekend, so I've got a nothing-to-say post. But I just wanted to say, "Hey." So Hey. 

Maybe something more will crop up later, when it's not midnight-thirty on a school night. 

The Saga

I started this story with the sentence, "I"m ashamed to admit this..." but then realized that wasn't one bit true at all, and I was just using that phrase to temper my dorkiness. I'm not ashamed, Reader, to admit that I've not only read all the Twilight's, but as of this weekend, have also now seen the whole Saga. And I've dragged My Mister along with me for all four movies, kicking and protesting, but he's gone none-the-less. She who has the pussycat has the power. 

See what I did there for you, Reader? I made this a CAT post. 

But back to the story.   

There was a slight miscommunication, and I thought that we had planned to go see the last Twilight over this past weekend with our friends The Hoffs.  So I put My Mister on a mission to go and get  Breaking Dawn Part 1 so we could catch up in time to catch the movie on Saturday. 

We crammed it in late Friday night. And I have to say, my little kitteh (see, another valid CAT post!) was on my lap (he was under the weather, a little cold and sore paws) and when Jacob and the other woofs turned into giant woofs, he jumped back against me and was mesmerized by the telly, with all that growling and whatnot. I found that to be a little charming, that he was watching Twilight with us.

Anyway, we watched it and didn't hate it, but both agreed that it could have ended right there, with Bella's blood red eyes opening and that could have been that. We didn't need yet another movie. 

But having committed to three of them at that point, we HAD to go see the last, even once I discovered that the Hoffs went without us while I was busy NOT having the day off from Tiny Town on Friday.  My Mister said we had to go that night, before we both totally lost interest.  

So we went. And in the beginning I wanted my time back. And then some stuff happened in the middle and we started to get involved. And then the most awesome fight scene erupted and we loved it, right down to clapping during some of the losing-their-head scenes. That is, when we weren't gasping at all the shock-deaths that happened. 

By the end? Stupid Bella and Edward were back in the flower field, and promising something about forever, and they flashed all the people who had been characters from all the stories, and a whole reminiscent scene of Edward & Bella's blossoming love story, and I found myself getting all misty-eyed. I blamed the dust in the theater.  

My Mister looked over in disbelief, asking, "Are you...CRYING??"  

Yes, dammit. I CRIED. It was a stupid shitty love story, and it still made me cry. 

On the way out, he bought me a $3 Twilight cup.  

Now that's true love. 

Thankful

I'm late with a recap of the nonsense that's my life, and I know you're sad about that. As am I, Reader, as am I.  I've been preoccupied, my nose has been buried in the book Gone Girl.  When I wasn't reading it, I was thinking about it. So it did it's job, kept me entertained and kept you from having to read about my vagina. Which is the perfect segue (wow, I had spelled that segway and then checked with Almighty Google on that, and I was way off, way way off!) into Thanksgiving. 

Thanksgiving brought an impromptu dinner plan my way. I had bowed out of the family affair this year, as My Mister had to work and I just didn't feel like going to his side of the family's and eating a hurried dinner. I just wanted to sit at home, unshowered,  in my pajamas, watching the parade, drinking coffee and eating pumpkin coffee cake while I enjoyed my "brief break" as Tiny Town encouraged us to do before we got back to business.  Which isn't the worst Thanksgiving plan, Reader.  

But then my friend Murdoch said, "come on over, we'll have plenty of food." And I declined because really, how intrusive would that be, to accept a nicety, but then a text message in the morning reiterated the invite and I found myself saying, "Okay!" despite having absolutely nothing to bring with me.  I don't think they wanted on-the-verge-of-spoiling milk. But maybe I should have brought it anyway, just to be polite. 

I was excited I said yes, and had something new to do, and it encouraged me to even take a shower and wash my hair, which I guess could be my Thanksgiving gift to them. You're welcome, Murdoch's. 

Dinner was delightful, with a fantastic meal cooked from scratch, and I especially liked Rob's mom, who is a world traveller and really charming. His Dad and I talked about mining for diamonds (a life list item for me), as I have discovered he has read snippets of this nonsense, which is a little awkward if he's read any of the vagina monologues parts, or about me dreaming of getting fingerbanged by a black basketball player, or even THIS POST, now that I've said all that. Sorry, Rob's Dad, if you're here. I'll try to be more lady-like. But I can't make any promises. Just go to the posts about cats, those are usually pretty tame. Unless I'm referring to "pussy" and not "pussy cats" or something, wow, just stop typing already, Me, stop! You're not helping! 

Er. 

I apologize? 

Anyway. I am super appreciative for the invite, glad I said yes, was grateful for the leftovers as they became part of my back-to-work-Friday lunch. And happy to have met the folks responsible for Rob, haha.  And their new dogue Sulley, who is very cute and not even slobbery yet. 

One bad thing happened while I was at their house for Thanksgiving dinner.  I discovered a $50+ bottle of wine that became my favorite. I don't have $50+ wine income.  I liked it so much I went to my local winery to buy a bottle the next night, and while they don't carry Twomey, he led me to a $20 bottle of Pinot Noir that was good, but not the same.  So thanks a lot, Rob and Beth, when I'm a poor drunk because I've drank my retirement in fancy wine, you have only yourselves to blame when I have to move into your basement  (or thank, as you may really enjoy more of me!). Which is really part of my dream plan, as they have a sauna in their basement. And a lot of delicious wine, so win-win for me. 

He'd Flip Us Off If He Could.

We had the kitty declawed last weekend.   Dismount from your high horse, you out there who is opposed to this barbaric practice.

I'm opposed to it, too.  If you look on the Internet, you can't help but be opposed to it. It's horrible looking. But so is a lot of shit we have to do in life, and this is his only sacrifice he has to make to live a pampered existence for the remainder of his days. 

I thought of the soft paws option, but the reality is, I don't think that will work as he gets older and declawing an older cat is reportedly more painful. 

All the other cats are declawed and DJ used his weapons of cat destruction against them all the time. Kitty Purry had boo-boos all over her nose and ears. 

He didn't fight fair.

And My Mister was convinced (probably rightly so) that the baby would be hanging by his claws off the new 80" t.v. and then we'd all be sad. 

So he went in last weekend for laser surgery. It's supposed to be the less painful/less invasive option, so we paid the extra to try and give him a little less agony.

And today, we had to take him in as an emergency visit, because he was chewing himself bloody and has caught a cold on top of it all. 

We just got back, and he has a Cone of Shame he'll have to wear, and I need to do some paw dips in a solution of stuff a couple of times a day, and he's on an antibiotic for 20 days or some absurdly long time like that. 

He DOES NOT like the Come of Shame. At all. And I'm a little miffed that the fucking thing was $13 and it's opaque, and not a clear one, so he doesn't even have the luxury of peripheral vision. Rob, you & he are in the same boat (Rob just got new progressive lens glasses and now he and my cat have something in common). 

The vet who came in tonight said, "You look really familiar." To which I replied, "Yeah, you're the vet who had to put our cat Twinkle to sleep a few months ago."  

It was a little awkward.  

She graciously didn't charge us for the Sunday emergency visit, only for the medicines. I really appreciate that. A lot. The visit was *only* $88. Not bad for an exam, 2 meds, a shot and a cone. And a toe dipping bath. 

The cat? He doesn't even know how shitty the next 20 days are going to be.  

In My Next 30 Years...

Happy Birthday,  Vintage Me!!

A few things you should know about how the next 30+ years pan out. 

First, you never outgrow that "awkward phase." You are awkward, you remain awkward, the best you can learn to do is accept and adapt. Don't try to fight it. You're just who you are, and that's okay. Stop resisting.

The shit you wrote about in your diary? That shit never changes. The players change, the venue changes (school to work), but the shit? That's your life. 

You don't outgrow your love of cake. So stop with all the "I"m giving up sugar FOREVER" plans; that is a stupid goal for you and then you just feel like a failure when you give in to the red velvet. 

You can, however, give up meat, and your crusade to save the animals was a noble goal for 5 years. 

Your dream man doesn't work out. Twice. It's okay to alter the criteria.

Keep your perspective, because life does have hard times.  Lots and lots of them.  Find the funny. 

You'll travel, and finally make it to your dream destinations, including Barbados and Italy. You're lucky in life that way. 

But it's all possible because you get up and go to work every day. If I could gently advise you to do anything different? It would be to stop thinking about boys and apply yourself to your schoolwork. Earning a decent living for yourself is what saves you. You could have done better. There's still time. 

46-year-old Me thanks you for flaunting it, even when you thought you were too fat and certainly not pretty. Because 46 year old me? Looks back on that and sees the greatness that's me, and it's a reminder that one day? I'll be 86 and looking back on 46-year-old me a little wistfully, so I might as well flaunt the fuck out of it now because eventually this will be the "good old days" when I was in my prime. 

Keep your perspective. 

The Master Plan

Morning conversation with My Mister, while we were still warm and sleepy-eyed from a good night's sleep:

Me: "Since I turned 46 yesterday, does that mean I'm now in my 47th year??" 

Him: "Yep. You're in your 47th year now. And I'm only 44."

Me: "Hm. Well, I think it's time we broke up. I have reached the age where I can get myself a nice 60 year old with a full pension plan and you can go get yourself a 34 year old and maybe start a family." 

Him: "You'd want a 60 year old??" 

Me: "Hell yes! "Cougars" are STUPID! What the fuck would I want with a 20-something year old guy? Give me someone nearing -or in - retirement, with a paid-off mortgage and a good pension plan or big 401k, who will be THRILLED to get a whippersnapper like myself!"  

Me: "You know, someone with a full head of white hair, like Ted Baxter. Or Lou Grant. Lou always made me laugh."

Him: "Ted Baxter's dead." 

Me, wistfully: "Yeah......that's the downside of this plan."

Him: "Sounds like you've put a lot of thought into this." 

Me: "Yep! I've seen the ad on t.v. - "our time dot com" - dating place for "mature" people. I think you have to be 50 to be on it, but I'll lie up. No one will question me lying up, who would lie up to 50? And I'll just look like a hot ticket for my age." 

Him: "Who do you think I'll get?" 

Me: "Oh, someone much younger, who maybe can bear children, and give your mom a grandchild."

Him: "But I don't want children!" 

Me: "Too bad. It's in the scenario."

Him: "Damn."

The end. 

It Went Without Warning. Maybe.

You may or may not (probably not, why would you?) remember, but about this time last year I was having some Titty Troubles. See, I was peer-pressured into getting my first ever mammary-gram, and the message? Wasn't very nice. 

It was downright scary. 

It involved a lot of follow up appointments and shish-ka-boob antics (needles sticking in my boobie), and an appointment for a biopsy where I cried on the table. Not because it hurt, but because my feelings were hurt. My boobies, who I've long supported in their endeavors, were causing me angst and that was really rude of them and hurting my feelings. 

I also didn't like the amount of blood I saw. 

So anyway. I had the biopsy surgery last November 1st, and I was therefore ordered for a follow-up boobie MRI 6 months later. Which I frankly wasn't ready to face. Oh, the results of all that angst? It was nothing, but it could have been something, so I guess it's good to get it checked out, because my friend who had peer-pressured me into the gram? She wasn't one of the lucky ones, and her boobie WAS a traitor and needed to be bitchslapped into proper boobie behavior. Also known as "don't be a bully on the playground, yo."   

Now that I have my new heath care coverage all in place, and we were coming up on a year of since the Scare of '11, I figured it was time to make the appointment.  Which is how I found out my vagina is playing tricks on me.  See, I called in October to schedule the appointment for the boob MRI. Which, for the record, does NOT sound like it's going to be all fun & games, oh nosiree. But whatever. These things come with a high degree of maintenance. Apparently. 

Well, I found out that I couldn't schedule the appointment until the first day of my period, because it has to happen exactly 14 to 17 days from the start of your period.  She asked me when I could expect that. I don't know. In a few weeks? A few days? I really had no idea. I mean, I'm always quite regular - in fact, I'm going to add that to my resume. Because it demonstrates punctuality, Reader - a valid business reason, and NOT because I'd like to put "Punctual Vaginal Secretions" on my resume. I'm supposed to tout my strengths, all the career boards say so.  

Because it's always so punctual, I don't keep any records of the comings and goings of it. It shows up once a month. 

I was told to call back when that happened. 

So far? It hasn't happened. Still waiting. Going on three weeks or so.  

Interestingly enough (to me, anyway), the nurse on the phone asked if I was pre-menopause.

I don't know.

How are we supposed to know these things?

It's hard being a girl. All sorts of shit we're supposed to know.

But it got me to thinking. How do we know when our last period is our last period?? How long do I wait around before coding it and declaring myself Officially Old. 

I wish there was a way to know. A handwritten note would be a nice gesture, with a, "Hey, this will be your last period. Ever. Sincerely, Your Vagina." Because after 30+ years of "spraying out of the blowhole" (a term my ex-fucktard coined, which is really kinda funny, I'll give him that), I feel like I should have had a little going-away party, with a cake and a little party hat for my vagina. 

And maybe even a blowhorn.

Shaken, Not Stirred.

Roger Moore was interviewed on Howard Stern this morning. When Roger Moore played James Bond, I would have totally pulled my pants down for him. Totally. Off.  

Today, I discovered he's 85.

Eighty. Fucking. Five. How is it possible that I would entertain the thought of pulling down my pants for an eighty-five year old man?  

The age gap didn't seem so .... gappy.... when I was a nubile young teen and he was a suave and debonaire secret agent. 

The question is, would I pull my pants down for him NOW? The gap is still the same. But yet somehow it's not. 

Worth 2 in the Bush

Did you ever see the movie Election, Reader? If not, I recommend it. It's a good time.

There. That's my election post. 

I'd write more, but I had a hair-brained (or is it hare-brained?? I don't think that's very polite towards rabbits, actually, so I shall insult my hair instead) idea to glue on press-on nails. My friend wears them and they look really nice on her. I thought I'd copy and get a $6 manicure look from the comfort of my toilet seat. Because I put them on in the bathroom, Reader - duh. In case the glue spilled. So I have on my fake toilet-applied nails and I can't type and would like to take them off but I've been advised that won't be possible for several days, so instead I'll type less and just go to bed. 

That's why I haven't written you any love letters lately. My nails are handicapped. Sort of literally - hand-(i)-capped - see how clever? Although they prefer "Differently Abled," thank you very much. 

My nails, unlike my hair, don't like to be demeaned. 

Semper Fi

My nephew graduated from Marine Corp Boot Camp yesterday. I'm so...choked up, proud, happy, sad (the little one who was a baby is now a grown adult male set to defend this country! - I cannot grasp that!), nostalgic for 18 and the world at your feet, all the Firsts to look forward to - First Loves, First Marriages (hey, I'm a realist), First House, First New Car, First Travels to other parts of the world - finding out who you are and what you're made of. 

It makes me nostalgic. I've looked at his picture over and over and tear up every time. 


I wish my mother were here to see him. I pine, for not being able to talk to her about him and sharing in his moment with her.

I want so much for him!! I want him to live a happy life, and make good friends, and create a family he's proud of, and find love and make some girl's heart sing, and be honest, and have integrity so he looks back on life and he's as proud of himself as I am right now. 

He's had a rough time of life as a teen. My brother - his father - is an asshole of uncommon proportions. So to see him rise above? Well, bursting, that's my heart.

Not Worth Your Moment

We've got big busy plans to organize our home office, a.k.a., The Basement, today. Fun, right?. Right. 

Some people who work with My Mister are coming over in an hour and a half to help with this endeavor, because it's a huge undertaking. Once and for all, we're going to get a System to the madness. We hope. 

In the meantime, I thought of preparing for the cleaning extravaganza by making muffins or something. I haven't, because I don't have a good muffin mix handy, but I find it funny/sad/baffling that my first step for a day of cleaning involves baking. But aren't all things more fun with a baked good?? I"m trying to bring the fun, and it's a tough add to a day of basement-ing. I've just verbed that noun. Go ahead, I'll allow you to use it. Right now I'm chairing, and My Mister and the kittens are couching.  

This is going no where fast, much like my cleaning and baking projects. Perhaps I'll photo this transformation. Perhaps not. 

Diversity & Inclusion.

Waking up this morning, I poked My Mister awake and then told him this dreamy tale:

T: "I just had a really diverse dream. In the first part, I was walking down the street and set my bag down for a moment, and a silent Chinese woman snatched it from me. I followed her home and looked into the bag, and in the bag was some of my real-life stuff, including my really light-weight umbrella I like. I asked her why she took my stuff, and she just looked at me. Because she was a silent Chinese woman.  I let her keep it all, but was a little miffed about losing my umbrella."

"And then in the next scene, I was getting finger-banged by an extremely tall black basketball player, and I'm pretty sure Kim Kardashian was in the background.  I'm sure this was a dream, because he was able to slip his hands right into the loose waistband of my jeans, and I haven't had a loose waistband in years." 

K: mutters, "Huh." And rolls back over for more sleep. 

Bad is Bad

Huey Lewis & The News was in town last night, Reader, and guess who was at the concert?? Go ahead, give 'er a guess.  

Give up?

Well, us, of course! My Mister is Huey's #1 Fan. Yes, he would hobble him and keep him in the back room as a pet if the opportunity presented itself. He loves him that hard. 

We see every Huey concert in the surrounding vacinity, and have even traveled out of the country (well, Canada, but technically it IS International Travels) to see Mr. Lewis & his News. 

The News aren't looking very new any more. Everyone's getting old. Er. Older. But Huey, he could still keep the Heart of Rock & Roll a-beatin', and jammed around on that harmonica like he owned that bitch. 

Most interesting part of the "rock" concert, in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame City?  Some chick was up and dancing in her seat, shakin' her moneymaker and just having a grand old time. Everyone else was sitting.  We were sitting because everyone else was, and I would have just felt awkward to be a lone dancer. 

But that's not the interesting part. The interesting part was when some old (50's old, not really old, but grey-headed old, not 50-is-the-new-30 old), yelled out "SIT THE FUCK DOWN, YOU BITCH, YOU'RE BLOCKING MY VIEW!" 

I, of course, turned around to witness the commotion. The gal who was dancing? Got mad props from me (silently, I didn't want to really get involved), as she turned around, looked at the lady and proceeded to dance harder and shout louder. She sat down when she was damned good and ready, about 2 songs later, and then she was up on her feet as the music moved her. 

It was a little geriatric of a concert. It started at 7:30, and at 9:07 Huey announced it was almost time to wrap things up because at his age, 9:00 means bedtime.  He was kidding, but I like that he poked fun at himself.  The couple sitting if front of me were wearing ear plugs. I don't get how you can hear a music concert while wearing ear plugs. The whole point of a concert is to hear the music. Right? And a lot of people were "beating the crowd" so they left before the awesome encore. Earplugs Couple included. 

I don't know reader. I'm confused about proper concerting, I guess. To dance, not to dance? Ear-plug or not ear-plug? Leave early or see the encore? Those are the questions. 

But Huey and My Mister? Danced to their own beats and enjoyed the hell out of themselves. And we stayed to the very last note was sung. 

Like Prison, Only With Champagne.

My floral-printed tourist and I are home. 

I only cried twice on vacation.  And I discovered that I have a tich of clausterphobia. Both crying games were in and because of our teensy-tiny interior stateroom cruise ship room. 

I wanted to be able to un-hoity myself and travel without pretenses. But the tears, they betrayed my good intentions. 

The first tears came as I tried to make peace with the size and lack of window/fresh air in our room. 

My Mister filmed that little breakdown, all the while patting me and telling me "there there."  And then I got the blubbering under control and told myself it would all be okay, and then I felt the walls closing in on me and started crying again. Ugly crying, Reader, not just a few simple tears. 

The room was pretty small. Bed against the wall, only one way out - over the other person. Here it is from the doorway...which really photographs larger than it appeared in real life, once two bodies were inserted into that picture. 

We never did figure out what the cloth bumper pad thingies on the wall were for, other than we stuck our clothes on it. There was one on the other side of the bed, too, which made me feel like I was in a bumper-padded crib. 

I actually was forced to unpack, and hang my clothes up so the suitcase could slide under the bed. 

The dresser area was too small to even be functional, and they kept sending food and champagne to our room which took up the little space there was. Yeah, I know, my hardship was figuring out what to do with all the chocolate covered strawberries and champagne.....

The bathroom was so small, you could brush your teeth, shower and stick your leg out to rest on the toilet while shaving it. Drying off involved stepping into the cabin. Couldn't wash my feet in the shower, no bending room. 

So yeah, small. Tear-worthy, apparently. 


I guess I am hoity.  We slept. A lot. A whole lot. Because we couldn't tell if it was day or night once we went to bed, so we just kept sleeping and sleeping. 


But occasionally we did get up and step outside. And saw this:



Which we liked and made me happy. 

I would not do well in prison. At all. Nope. Although I pretended I was locked up and doing some hard time, and then we played conjugal visits so it wasn't totally without merit. 

The end. 

Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

We're washing clothes, Reader! They delivered the new new new LG-brand washer today. And I've been washing clothes for hours. 

One thing to note about these new "energy efficient" washers. They take a long-fucking-ass time to do a load of clothes. I haven't quite reconciled how a load of clothes that used to take about 45 minutes to wash, now takes an hour and thirty six minutes is efficiently using energy.  

I stood down there and watched it for a good bit, to see what all the fuss was about. It's rather addictive viewing with the glass top. It does a lot of slow spinning. For minutes and minutes and minutes at a time. And then some jerking and some shooting of water, and I"m not really sure how it's beating the dirt out of the clothes, but they come out smelling clean so something must be happening in there. 

We got almost everything washed, including the bedding. But I'm not exaggerating when I say it's been an all afternoon process. I'm tired. But I have one last load to dry. 

We go on vacation in the morning. Don't come and steal my washer. 

We Rang The Bell Anyway

We had Arby's for dinner tonight. And I wondered - as I always do when I'm eating Arby's - if perchance someone had jizzed in the horsey sauce. 

That bothers me. 

But not enough to not eat there. Occasionally, Reader. Not all the time. I don't like a jizzy roastbeef sammy all the time. 

I mentioned my jizz-in-the-sauce concerns to My Mister. 

He looked at me with "what the fuck?" eyes. 

And then I continued to spread the jizzy sauce on my bun and idly comment, "Well, it's not like I've never had jizz in my mouth before, so I guess what's the big deal."  

He informed me I was pretty fucked up. 

And then we both dipped our curly fries in the potentially-jizzy sauced and continued with our Friday night date night dinner. 

The End. 

And I'm sorry for that. 


**The Arby's by our house has two giant bells and you can tug on the rope and ring them loudly if you've had great customer service. I cannot resist ringing the hell out of that bell on my way out. Tonight I rang it so enthusiastically I think I went a little deaf in my left ear.  I wanted to thank them immensely even if I did have a jizzy sandwich. Because I probably didn't. Probably.