Where's The Beef?

This was one of three things that managed to annoy me at Burger King:

The non-rhythmic verse on the trash cans. The photo's shitty, let me clarify:

TOSS IT IN DROP IT IN

SLIDE IT IN OFF THE TRAY

JUST GET YOUR TRASH

IN HERE SOME WAY

WTF, Burger King?? That's not a haiku, the meter is all off to be any sort of verse -- it's just B.A.D. -- Bad.

The only thing worse than no attempt is a half-assed attempt, and this is one half-assed attempt at being clever.

I wrote this JUST NOW, I gave it just a half-thought more than zero thought and came up with this:

You can drop it, you can toss it

You can slide it off the tray

Doesn't matter how you do it

Just get your trash in here, your way

Get it? Because BK is all about having it your way? See how easy? And they wouldn't give old crotchety ladies an aneurysm trying to find the rhyme.

Responsible Rhyming, Burger King. That's all I'm asking.

Design on a Dime

We've installed a second bathroom in the house. Kinda like in the movie, The Help, where a second bathroom was highly endorsed, only it's not really like that at all. We finally gave in. Threw down the white flag of surrender, and realized after about a week's worth of cleaning up a pile of poop on the rug, that the problem just wasn't going to go away.

But let me back up first, there's more to the pooping backstory.

Remember when (maybe you don't, why would you remember this, really) I had a bright idea to put newspapers down on the floor in the living room when we travelled, just in case the cat pooped? It would make it much easier to clean up, and wouldn't be sitting on the rug while we were gone. We came home to lots and lots and lots of poops all over that newspaper.

I thought it was a rather successful idea.

Until we went to Vegas over Christmas. We were only gone a couple of days, left on a Sunday, home on a Wednesday. What's the likelihood of poop in that short amount of time? But we put papers down anyway, just in case.

Came home to poop on the papers. Picked it up, threw it out and thought I was done with it.

However. It's never that simple, is it.

I had left the un-pooped on papers on the floor that first night. And the next morning when I got up? Twinkle took a shit right in front of me, on the paper.

I stared in disbelief.

We'd never ONCE thought that Twinkle was the phantom floor pooper. For some reason we seem to believe he's the Smart Cat of the family. We had always assigned him a level of excellence that this incident of pooping leveled.

Unless. Unless, in fact, that my putting the paper down on the floor trained him to believe that the entire living room was now one big litter box. And believe you me, he had a good time scratching around on it before he took his catshit. I watched him go to work, I was in such disbelief that surely the cat that we regarded so highly wasn't actually going to take a shit on the floor (newspaper) right before my eyes. But he did. Oh yes, he did.

So now? We've given up. We put a 2nd litter pan in the corner of the living room. And they have all gone cat-shit-crazy with the freedom/luxury of not having to walk all the way to the back room to do their *what I wish was more personal* business.

Now we get to enjoy the sound and smell of all five of them taking turns pissing and shitting while we watch television/read/blog. Because believe me, they have ALL been enjoying it immensely. It's NEW, of course they are all going to use the newly installed bathroom. They line up to take turns in there.

And I only put a small litter pan there, never anticipating that it would be such a popular pooping spot. As a result, Girl Cat's fat ass sometimes hangs over the edge when she gets in there, and I've had to pick poop up off of the floor anyway.

I've hesitated to even write this blog, because I'm sure you haters out there will think that I have a shit-filled house. However, we do clean it as soon as it happens, so it's not like we're going to qualify for an episode of Hoarders. At least not yet. When I cut a hole in my recliner and decide to just shit right here in the living room while I enjoy uninterrupted blogging, then you may need to stage an Interference. Right now we're still of the mindset to clean it up.

But I watch myself ever so carefully, because Hoarders were at one time Just Like Everyone Else. But then came some defining moment, that pivotal moment when they just stepped over the pile of shit and sat down and watched t.v., and the next thing you know, a team of strangers are in your house shoveling decaying cat carcases (carci?) up off the floor. It all begins with that first ignored poop.

Grandiose Plans

Before Kenny began his training for the new Cleveland casino, I was a much more productive person.

I don't know what has happened to me.

He trains (unpaid, mind you - for which I admire his gumption and dedication, I can't say for certain that I would have the same unpaid motivation) five days per week, 9 a.m. - 1 p.m., Wed-Sun. His days off are Mon-Tues.

I had lofty plans on how I was going to spend my Saturday & Sunday morning hours sans interruptions. I was going to get up my normal weekend time, 9 or 10 a.m., have some coffee, write a little, blog a little, and then go get busy with my organization plans.

Those organization plans are some Grand Plans I have laid out in my mind. Clear out the back "junk/guest" bedroom, where everything without a dedicated space seems to land. Organize the kitchen cupboards. Which, by the way, I have actually done. Get my paperwork files organized. Clear off all the shit that piles up on the kitchen table. I still have a bag of birthday gifts sitting in a bag on the kitchen floor - no place to put 'em, so I've left them there. I have my 2012 plan to figure out space for stuff.

But what really happens? Kenny leaves for training. I get up, feed the cats, look at facebook, cnn.com. The decide it's too early to be up on the weekend, grab Kitty Purry and plop back into bed. And then we catnap until noon. Noon on a good day. Some weekends, Kenny has called me on his way home from training and has awakened me. At 1:00 p.m.

IN THE AFTERNOON.

Shame.

Lazy, lazy shame.

Today? I was up at 8:00 when he went to training. Stayed up til about 8:30. Realized that was ridiculous and went back to bed until 11:50 a.m.

But then? I got up and cleaned out the freezer. Food that's been in there for a year stands a very small chance of getting eaten. I'm talking about leftovers and such, not normal freezer goods like bagged vegetables. Those can last a little longer.

I pulled out some bagged and frozen raspberries that I had gotten from my grandmother. I'm letting them defrost and am going to see if they are salvageable and turn them into pie. With enough sugar they should be good. Right? Well, we'll see.

And that, Reader, is My Exciting Life. Hide your jealousy, it's unbecoming.

Lemony Fresh

I wasn't exaggerating.

Unrest in the Sheets

Why not some cute cat pictures?

Here she is, my baby girl, helping me blog.

The most consistent name we've had to date has been Kitty Purry, or just Purry for short. I tested out Dora/Dory on her yesterday, it didn't really take. I think we'll stick to Purry, it's been 3 months and time to settle on a name. Luckily she does purr, when she's not growling at the other cats.

At night she sleeps tight against my side, and will stretch her paws all the way up to my lips and rest them there. Either I have bad breath, or she is trying to stop the snoring, or she wants a kissy on her feet. I default to the kissies on her feet, and smooch away.

She has learned to take a kiss rather well. When we first got her, she would jerk away like a startled virgin whenever I moved in for a smooch on her nose/side of her face. After constant repetition, she doesn't startle much and will allow me unlimited smoochies.

Additionally, I've taught her the joys of sleeping under the blankets. At first she didn't want to be covered up At. All. Nosirree. She needed to be able to make a quick get-away if necessary, unencumbered by the confines of blankets.

I began our Blanket Therapy by first making her a little blanket "nest" next to me, and kind of hooping the covers up on the sides. Not confining her, more like making a little fort of comfort. And then, ever-so-slowly, I'd edge a corner of the Cariloha sheet onto her torso. Do cats have torsos? Is that the accurate name for the cat midriff area?

She's a lucky cat, to be ensconced in the Cariloha sheet. She must have recognized the magic powers of these sheets, and would relax right into them.

Now? I still build her a little nest, but now can get her completely covered up, with her little nose and paws sticking out.

And then I'm afraid to move all night, because I don't want to disturb the cat.

I woke up around 4 a.m. this morning, floinking and complaining, disturbing everyone in bed. I felt boxed in. Confined. Restricted. Twinkle was conked out on the pillow above my head, his paws draped over onto my head, and Purry was in her cover cave, paws reaching up to me. Kenny on the other side, who was crowding me because Girl Cat was taking up more than her fair share of space on his side of the bed.

I created such a ruckus everyone was up and out. And then finally, I was able to comfortably adjust myself for my 2nd half of sleep, sweet sleep.

Toby? He's happy making himself a little bed in the styrofoam casing that housed the new printer. Now he looks so cute in there, I don't have the heart to throw it out, so I have this lying about my living room floor.

We closed him up in it with the top. He didn't like that one bit.

Simple Pleasures.

Kenny has a fetish.

What excites him? A very tight, moist package.

He gets excited when he sees it, and can't control his urges in public.

He loves the way it feels in his hand. Cannot resist the smell. Dives in face-first. Rubbing it.

All.

Over.

His head.

What titillates him so?

Why, The Wet Nap. Of course.

He takes great precision with opening, being mindful to tear from the edge, slipping the wet, folded towelette from the tight confines of the foil-lined package.

Unfurling it to maximize it's potential.

And then quickly burrowing his nose in it, before the smell dissipates.

From there, he proceeds with a cat-like detail: Washing his entire face, the back of his neck, rubbing it over his shorn hair, before using the last remaining drops of lemony freshness to wipe his fingers clean.

The wet-nap is second only to the Hot Towels served in first class on an airline. We had the luxury of traveling in first on our recent trip to Vegas. I had forgotten about the steamy hotness that awaited.

Kenny did not.

He saw the flight attendant prepping.

He put his tray table town. Took off his glasses, reclined back in his chair and closed his eyes, proclaiming, "Ahhhhhh.....here they come!"

On the return trip he scored not one, but TWO of the hot towels, and promptly placed one against the back of his neck, and draped the other across his glasses-removed-in-anticipation face.

I pretended I didn't know him, and sipped my gin, looking out the window. Which is why there are no photos chronicling this event. I know you're saddened. For that, I apologize. But sometimes? Blind staring out a window better serves me.

But alas, despite the lemony scent of the towelette, and the hot steamy washcloths of first class, they both take a back seat to that which holds the #1 spot in Wetnap Goodness: The Quaker Steak & Lube naps.

Not only lemony. Not only moist. Not only large. But also, STEAMY. The perfect storm of pleasure for those who adore the moist towelette.

Which I found to be somewhat disturbing while writing this, apparently, there's enough interest in the wet nap to have a dedicated museum.

Oh, Google. You DO know everything.

Throwback Blog (also known as: too lazy to write something fresh)

Today, I've decided to step back in time and reblog this from almost 3 years ago. I like this story because it really happened.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

A Real Douchebag.

Conversation overheard at the funeral I attended today:

Older Lady: "So my husband says that when he goes, he wants to be cremated."

Other Older Lady: "Oh, really?"

Older Lady: "Yep. And then he asked if I could put the ashes in a douche and give him one more pass through."

Other Older Lady: Laughing and Laughing.

Me: Pretending to ignore this whole thing. Secretly thinking: "I cannot WAIT to blog this!"

Tough Love

Scene: Tracye was spending a few minutes on the exercise bike before bed, limbering up her hips to ensure a restful night of sleep.

Tracye to Kenny at 10:20 p.m.: "Go make the bed, and do a good job. I want my sheets smoothed out."

Kenny: "It's already done, I did the best job I can do."

Tracye, sarcastically: "I anticipate seeing what classifies as the best job you can do."

Kenny: "It's good, it's nice, everything's smooth."

Tracye: "Well then, go pull the headboard away from the bed a little, it's knocking against the wall (when we knock boots).

Kenny: "I don't know how to do that."

Tracye: "Yes you do, you fucking moron."

A few things I'd like to note about above conversation. Firstly, that Kenny dreamily suggested going to bed at 10:20 p.m.

My, my, Mr. Fly. How times a-change when YOU have to get up for a J.O.B. in the morning.

Back in the olden days, when I suggested heading to bed at oh, say 11:00 p.m., I was answered with whines of, "So early?? Stay up and watch Seinfeld and Old Christine reruns with me." Which I did.

I believe I'm the fucking moron. Ahem.

The second thing I'd like to note about the above conversation. When I called him a "fucking moron" there was laughter and a smile behind the words. So it's not quite as harsh as it may read to you, Reader. In my defense. Are those love words even defensible??

Anyhoo. If they are offensible, someone needs to toughen up. Pussy. Or shall I say "Pussytwat," which is a frequently used word I've stumbled upon in the latest book I'm reading, House of Holes. That book gets it's own blogpost. Consider this your teaser.

She Knows What She Likes

We spent New Years Eve with grandma Margie & Linda. It was the perfect evening for me to foist my favorite movie, The Help, on everyone. I heart that movie so hard I would like to foist it on everyone I know - and I'm sure I will!

So I brought it over for some pre-Dick-Clark festivities.

Margie couldn't understand it. At one point she made a noise that sounded like "Pfffffffft" and threw her hands at the television in a motion of dismissal.

That didn't thwart me.

At the end of the movie? Margie had this to say:

"You know what's a good movie? One I really liked?"

"No, Margie, what's your idea of a good movie?"

"The Hand that Rocked the Cradle. Now THAT'S a good movie!"

So. A poignant, heart-tugging movie that showcased friendship and the hardships of life pre-Civil Rights movement? That's junk.

Junk compared to a movie with this storyline: After her humiliated husband kills himself, an embittered pregnant widow loses her child, and embarks on a mission of vengeance against a woman and her family.

Cats-in-Crowns 2012 Edition

Don't they all look thrilled? Happy New Year, 2012!

Girlie Cat (she refused to open her pretty blue eyes):

Twinkle Toes:

Toby (he had to go first, and refused to look happy about it):

And Kitty Purry, who was the best poser of the bunch:

We couldn't catch our little black kitty Sami. She absolutely refused to participate. She's a Cats-in-Crowns Series spoiler.

All of us wish you a Happy New Year! Cheers to 2012!