State of the relocation address

Right now, my room is a tangled maze of cardboard boxes crammed full of my stuff, boxes I brought in the car and boxes that have arrived via UPS and the postal service, boxes awaiting unpacking, categorizing, and storage of their contents. I have no comfortable place in my room from which to write these missives, so I have taken over Nick's desk in the computer room for when I actually want to sit up and type something. Sorry, Nick - I promise it's all yours again after I get a desk in my room.

The fact that my bedroom is in a total state of chaos does not seem to deter the cats, however. They are, in fact, completely fascinated by the fact that the door is closed and they are being denied entry. Somehow, that makes the thought of a feline strut through my scattered belongings even more delicious to them.

Did I mention I'm allergic to the cats? And that allergy meds and a cat-free bedroom allow me to continue breathing even as I enjoy their whiskery, cheeky companionship? Yeah, that makes it even more imperative to the cats that they be allowed access to my room, my stuff, my bed.

They want in so very, very much. Like, this much:




This is what I saw under my door Friday morning. Weebles very nearly flattened herself enough to slide under the door like a love note from a shy, greasy neighbor.

Almost every time I open that door, there are cats lurking, just waiting for a moment of weakness, a second of vigilance dropped. The little bastards often work in pairs, where one will distract me while another one shoots through the door into forbidden territory. And every time I see it, and go back in to evict the intruder, the sneaky cat will inevitably scoot right under the Play-Doh table, as if it's a cloak of invisibility. I do a bit of cat wrangling.

Wobbles is especially intrigued with my forbidden bedroom. Perhaps he likes the frozen ass treatment - I'll have to get back to you on this one. I'm thinking, though, that it might be advantageous of me to have Buttercup in my room, as she is fierce and does not shrink from battle where it is needed.



Buttercup puts the smackdown on Elle Driver.

I'm a little worried about my influence on the impressionable youngsters in the house, though. I worry that they will try to emulate me, and I am certainly no role model. As you can see here, my fears are not unfounded, as one youngster has taken to posing just like I do whenever the opportunity presents itself:


For shame, Hermione. For shame.

On a deleriously excellent note, however, I found a store in the neighborhood that sells Vernors! I'd brought some with me, as it's usually hard to find outside Michigan, but now I shall not have to hoarde, nor will I have to beg my sister to send me cases of the delightfully spicy ginger ale. Now, if I can just find somewhere around here where they sell Made Rite (same as Better Made) chips, I will be one extra happy little pervert.

Um, not that I'm not a happy little pervert now, but you know - a pervert is always happiest when acts of perversion can be bookended by one's favorite soda and chips.