Life, etc.

I'm too busy to blog, Reader. Don't take it personally. It's not you. It's me. 


These long hours at Tiny Town and killing my creativity. That, and I had my nose buried in a book this weekend (On the Island, read it, you'll like it. Maybe) and having dinner at My Friend Murd's house on Saturday night. 


We see each other once every couple-ah years. Kinda like Cicadas. We pop out, make a lot of noise, and then wish each other glad tidings and part ways for another couple-ah years. It works for us. We e-chat almost daily but don't do much facetime. Because there's not enough timetime. 


Anyway. He and his bride invited us over and while we were expecting tropical margaritas and burgers on the grill, they pulled out all the stops like we were fancy and threw some filets on the grill the likes that would make Gordon Ramsey proud. And we had an heirloom tomato and cucumber salad and some cubed potatoes cooked with garlic. We contributed the corn on the cob and the world's best chocolate chip cookies, but really it wasn't nearly enough in comparison to the meal we had. 


And then? Their son asked if we were married because "we look like we should be." And then? He said, at 10:00, "I thought they'd be gone by now." Which made me laugh and pick up my purse to scadaddle. It's a fine line between eating and running and over-staying a six year-old's timeline of events. 


It was a fun get-together. For me anyway. 


There ya have it. All I have to give you tonight, Reader. It was  a quickie. Now roll over and go to sleep. 

Mouse Trap

This? Is just the norm.

One Step Closer (to an episode of Hoarders)

Against the probably better judgement of my brain, and thumbing my nose at the messages from The Universe, I went back to the Cleveland APL and found this little fella:

And scooped him up, paid my ten dollars and forty cents for him (he was on sale this month, sponsored by the radio station Q104), and marched his little ass home. 

My brain said, "NO! You don't need another cat! Your attempts have been thwarted for a reason!" 

But? The heart wants what the heart wants. 

Mine wanted a little boy to play with Toby and liven up the place. 

He "given" name is Carl. We were kinda sticking on calling him Buddy, but I'm not sure if that'll last. 

He's rompy and busy and a sideways walker - like, he just has so much energy his backend gets away from him and catches up with the front, and pretty soon he's walking sideways.

I'd like to name him Katniss Everdeen, but that's a girls name.  Maybe I'll name him Kathiss. Because some of my less-than-accepting girl cats have given him a lot of hiss. 

He really doesn't let it phase him. He's made himself right at home. Climbed up in bed and made a little nest between Kenny's legs. Got up from there and burrowed down under the covers next to me. Purr-Purr-Purred so loud. He's a talker, too. Very chatty. Very cutie. 

I didn't need another cat. But the heart wants what the heart wants. 

Cat Hoarders

Oh! And then I forgot - or blocked - the latest update in my Cat Quest.  I wasn't going to be daunted by the Parma Animal Shelter. I would just go somewhere else. The sad story is that there are far fewer homes than there are homeless cats. 


So Sunday I got up, grabbed a cuppa coffee and settled in to do a little online looking at kitty cats.  A few days earlier I had seen a little fella online at the Cleveland APL named Sloppy Joe and it was such a dumb name and he had a cute look that My Mister and I agreed he might fit in here.  I actually bemoaned the name Sloppy Joe and he looked at me with a quirked brow and pointed the finger back at me with his comment, "Really?  You named a cat Twinkle Toes." 


I stand by that name, Reader. Twinkle Toes is a damn fine cat name. 


After checking the hours online for the APL, I headed down there around 2:45 p.m. They were open from noon to four. Plenty of time. I had cat carrier in tow. 


Then I hit some road work. And experienced a bit of delay, delaying my arrival until 3:20.  


The receptionist told me that I only had five minutes to pick out a cat as they stop processing adoptions at 3:30. Their hours are noon. To FOUR. Four. Not three thirty. 


I do understand people want to go home. Especially on The Lord's Day and all that. However, you're denying a happy home to a small critter. Can't ya just type really fast and check the people out?? 


I thought I could do it since I already knew who I wanted. Little Sloppy Joe was going to be mine. So I pre-filled out the paperwork and then went back to the cat room to find him. 


I searched high and low, into the mournful eyes of many many many kitties in need of my loving arms. I scoped out four to bring home with me. Two have to go together, they are too attached to each other to be parted (the sign said so) and they were so absolutely cute with their entwined sleeping that it was going to be no problem at all to bring both of those boys home. 


And then a big black girl named Lucy. She wanted to come home. She meowed up to the edge of the cage and was pawing out at me with a, "Hey! Pick me!" positioning. 


And then there was a poor little guy who looked scared shitless. He was 8 and his parents turned him in  because they were moving. He looked like he had just lived through his first night of prison and my heart broke a little and I wanted to jail break him. 


And then? A guy with a big poster that he'd been there since October! Poor guy. That's a long time to not get picked. 


And then? The one who was perfect, some little tabby fella who was playful and rompy and looked like he'd be good fun and a good brother for Toby.  He wasn't Sloppy Joe. Ol' Slops must have gotten adopted because he was no where to be found. 


I got myself under control and had resolved to just go and get the one little playful guy - about 8 months old or so, not a teensy weensy kitten - and not be swayed by Lucy or the Cuddlers. And when I went to check out? 


Too late. 


Twenty to four. 


No can do.


I just sort of stood there and looked at the lady, blinking in disbelief. 


She told me I could reserve him and come back the next day. 


They close at 6:30, there's no way I can be back from Tiny Town to this side of town in time to complete the adoption process, because I'm sure they close down the process at six if they're open til 6:30. Or maybe they shut down adoptions at noon. Who the fuck even knows. 


The saddest part? There were two families in there after me looking at kittens with their kids, and they were picking out someone to bring home. So they, too, went home empty handed, I've no doubt.


So again, foiled in my attempt to add to the family. 


At that point I bowed to the Universe, acknowledged the message loud and clear and have abandoned my quest to fill my Twinkle hole. 


Someone will find it's way to me. Or not. But I'm pretty soured on the whole APL services. 

Many Linguals

I'd like to know why every time I have to re-sign in to my blog, it gives me the Espanol sign-in screen.  I never really knew of Spanish being a default, unless maybe blogger isn't U.S. I don't really know, but I find it curious. Blogs don't originate in Mexico. Cartels and drugs do.  Unknot your panties, Reader, that was a tongue-in-cheek stereotype. And just for the record, stereotypes exist for a reason: Because they're true. 


So anyway. 


Holy snitsnacks, a cat fight just erupted as I sat here pondering life and blogging in Mexico!   All three of the females were in an uproar. Well, just two were in boxing match, but then the other ran over to get into the mix. The boy cat, Toby? He steered clear. 


Sort of representative of actual human behavior, too. The girls start tiffing for no apparent reason and the boys lay low and out of the way. 


I don't enjoy cat fights. "Why can't we all just get along?" she pleaded. 


I'm killin' time waiting for My Mister to come home from his Card Mines.  We're going to go and get some grub because all I have here is corn and green beans and while that sounds good to me, he thinks there's a little something missing from that equation. I think ice cream is the only thing missing, and plan on having a cone tonight.  I'm on my way to making 2012 the Summer of Ice Cream. Since the rest of it blows a dick due to long hours at TIny Town and long no days off for either of us, I might as well have ice cream. 


There. I just took you on a rambling ride about nothing. You're welcome. Or, de nada. 




UPDATE: In case you DO actually care what we had for supper, we cooked at home! That's a banner day at our house when we both get home so late. I cooked up the fresh green beans, had some mashed potatoes we needed to use up, and then I made a Depression-era pot meal of ground hamburger cooked with cream of mushroom soup to accompany. Then that meal made me think of my grandmother and how if I had life to live over, I would have gone out to her home more and spent dinnertime with her. I did that occasionally, but not nearly as much as I could have. Dinner is lonely when you're by yourself night after night. And now I'm sad. But full. 

Clean Up in Aisle 6

Today I saw the foxiest produce man at Giant Eagle. And by "man", I mean I hope to hell he was at least 18 because my thoughts were impure and very very acrobatic in nature.  


He was so good looking in that tall, muscular, strong-jawed and tanned way that is straight out of a romance novel. 


And boy, could he handle the peaches. See how I didn't default to the pedestrian "melon" comment right there? You're welcome. 


But anyway, back to my boy/man lust. I spent a lot of time in that section, carefully looking over all the fruits and vegetables and trying to keep my pants up. 


Because they wanted to come down. 


There are so so so many bad puns that could be had right now. I shall forgo them and give you something to do, coming up with them yourself. 


I have a feeling that we are going to be well-stocked up in the fruits & veggies this summer. I'll make sure of it, if I have to go grocery shopping Every. Single. Day. I owe it to My Mister, so he doesn't get rickets. Or scurvy. I'm doing it for him, Reader. 

Pussy Galore? Not So Fast.

Ever since the loss of Twinkle Toes, I've had a Twinkle-sized hole in my heart and Toby has had the loss of his little cat friend who played with him. So I've been looking around a little for a few weeks now, stopping in at the pet shelter and checking out online pet shelter selections to see who grabs my attention.

Finally, last night's stop at the shelter yielded this little fella above and I decided to bring him home.

Except I couldn't, because the shelter closes at 7:00 p.m. and it was ten to seven. 

So I filled out the paperwork and they yellow-flagged him as "adopted" and I said I'd be in either Wednesday or Thursday evening to pick him up, depending upon how my Wednesday schedule played out. 

So.  It's now Wednesday. And I left work at five on the nose so I could beat traffic and make it to the shelter in plenty of time to complete the deal.

Except I hit the Van Wyck. As soon as  I tried to get on the entrance ramp. And long story short, it took me an hour to get back to my side of town.

And then I had to go find a bank-in-the-box. Because they only accept cash ($85, high-priced pussy cats there) or check. So I drove to the bank-in-the-box and made a withdrawl. 

And then I drove to the shelter. Which is near my house, only about 5 blocks away. Close. A 3-minute drive. Which they could see from my application, my street which is so fucking close to the shelter, I could drive home safely with the cat on my head, if needed. 

And then? They told me I couldn't take the cat without a carrier. Which I have at home, but in the interest of time I figured I'd forego. 

Which I obviously couldn't. 

So I drove home. Down my under-construction-bumpy-as-a-motherfucker street. 

And ran to the basement and got out one of the cat carriers. And then drove back to the shelter. 

And then the adoption counselor called me into a room and they informed me that they didn't think we'd be a suitable home for the cat. 

Because of my two *ahem* other cats that I have listed on the paperwork, a 3 yr. old and a 9 yr. old. 

They were concerned and think they'd like him to be in a house with other kittens only, or in a house with no other cats at all. So he doesn't have to "compete" for his position in the household. 

And then? I almost lost my shit because, SERIOUSLY? MOTHERFUCKERS? YOU DON'T THINK I'M A SUITABLE CRAZY CAT LADY WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT INTEGRATING A CAT?? And then I realized that my anger issues would only make them feel justified, complete with a lot of lip-pursing and head nodding towards each other, so I pulled it together and instead I *somewhat* politely replied, through a tight-lipped semi-smile, "Well, you have to do what you feel is best.  There are hundreds of cats out there waiting to be adopted. I'm sure I can find one at the APL, instead of giving your shelter my $85. And I will never set foot in here again."

And then I ha-rumphed out of there, slamming the door with my cat carrier. And then I muttered something along the lines like, "you could have told me this shit last night, or before I drove home and got the cat carrier, and saved us both some time and trouble."

And then I got in my car and cried because I felt like a giant motherfucking loser who isn't suitable to care for a pussycat and what the fuck do they even know about me and who the fuck are they to judge me and that cat just lost the best motherfucking cat mama a cat could have and that shelter just lost my business and I'm going to bad mouth them on the Interwebs as soon as I get home. 

Which is what I'm doing now. Suck it Parma Animal Shelter.  And I don't want to read one word about the overpopulation at the animal shelters. Here's an idea: Adopt out your cats. If you are wondering if a family will take good care of the animal, why don't you try calling their vet for a reference instead of making your unfounded judgements on your own. 

Although that could work against me as I scaled down the actual number of cats in the house, and they would have refused adoption based on the Liar Liar Pants On Fire clause in the adoption contract. 

So we remain status quo in the cat department. Which is still a lot of motherfucking cats. 

Nothing to Write Home About

It's ridiculous to write a post to say, "I don't have anything to write about." Call me ridiculous. I've earned it just now.


Seriously. Nada. 


Usually I tick off all these little weirdism of life and jot them down in my brainy and think, "I'll write a little story about that weirdness." But as of late, nothing is sticking.


I mean, it's just been typical ordinary blah blah heatwave blah blah ice cream blah blah kittens blah blah around here.  


Tiny Town is the same. I was a little smarter last week than the week before. 


The drive still bites. 


The kittens are soft. Purry has been getting along well with others lately. Girlie has a sniffle. Someone's been throwing up around the house a bit this week. I'd think it's the heat, but we have central air so they don't even know how fucking hot it is outside and they don't even have the decency to say thanks. 


Andy Griffith died and I was super-sad about that. 


I love Anj. That's what he was called on the AG Show, in case you weren't a fan. Barney called him Anj. 


I wish I lived in Mayberry. I wrote a speech once about why the AG Show has endured though the years.  It was a hit and people clapped.  


I went to Mayberry once. Well, it's actually Mt. Airy. And on the way into town, there was this giant electronic billboard that said, "One day only! Andy Griffith in Town! Stop for your Autograph!!" and I was so excited I squealed and clapped and looked around for my autograph-signing pen. And then the billboard said, "April Fool's!!" Because it was April 1st and it was all an insensitive jokie.  But we did eat at Aunt Bea's Kitchen, so that was a small consolation prize. 


So I was sad to learn he died. 


There. Don't ya wish I would have left you with nothing to use up your precious minute instead of cobbling a post out of this?  But I just couldn't leave ya all week without saying, "Hey." 


So hey. 

Little Ms. Independence

Happy 4th of July, Reader!  

I have the day off from Tiny Town - hooray for Independence! 


So far I've spent the day sleeping in, making the topping for my most delish and patriotic-colored blueberry/raspberry jello with whipped topping treat that is going to a party later.  


I am dreading stepping foot outside as I've been warned that it's a scorcher. 


I'm still in my jammies. That's how a day off should roll, Reader. 


Some would call it a boring day. I call it fantastical. 

Give Thanks

After dinner, walking through the mall on the way to our Friday night date-night movie:


Me: "Thanks for dinner."


Him: "Why are you thanking me? You bought dinner tonight."


Me: "I know. I was thanking myself. I appreciate me."


Appreciate yourself. It's pretty easy, really, and can't we all use a little more acknowledgement in this life for the things we do. Yes. Yes, we can.