Not the clearest picture in the world, but what do you expect of hands that are trembling from extreme loss of blood? This is the inside of my left knee/thigh/scratching post. Friday and Thirteen think it's the coolest game in all the world to take a flying leap and dangle from mommy's tender human flesh. When I went to get my monkey waxed the other day, I was half tempted to tell my aesthetician that I'd cut myself shaving.
In summation, let me just say OUCH, MOTHERFUCKER, OUCH! Kittens are adorable, but they hurt like a sonofabitch.
Yes, yes, I have deigned to come back and post. We've had Princess #1 here for the weekend, so our hands have been collectively full. Jess has been attempting to impart the lesson of patience to her, after she asked "When will Uncle Nick be done with work?" roughly 1,795,044 times on Friday night, and then "Is it time for the movie to start?" approximately 4,000,000,005 times yesterday. To be fair, we had gone to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in 3-D, and when we showed up for the 4:30 show, we found it sold out. We wound up buying tickets for the 9:30 show, which left us several extra hours of shopping and Princess questions.
The movie was ultra cool, though the 3-D glasses were giving me a bit of a headache toward the end of the flick (stupid migraine eyes). This was actually the first time I'd seen the movie all the way through (I passed out about halfway through my first viewing). On the way home, I mentioned to Jess that I really needed to post, but all I could think to put up would be more kitten pictures, and nobody wants to see that. She told me I was entirely too worried about what other people thought. You know what? She's right. So here you go: KITTEN PICTURES!
Eeyore is so good with Friday and Thirteen. Since Eeyore is my little boyfriend, then I guess that makes him their stepdaddy.
If this picture doesn't melt your heart, then you can go fuck yourself in the ass, right now!
Thirteen's cute, isn't he? Well, this cute little fucker almost turned me into Bucky Three-Eyes last night. He was sitting on my pillow, and I was telling him how very adorable he is. He stared at me, cocked his cute little head, and then, quick as a flash, clawed me right in the fucking eyeball! If you don't think that hurt like hell, then I suggest you go jab a red-hot meat fork in your nipples.
Wednesday was always the day Mom's letters arrived. For all the years that we lived in different cities, she wrote to me once a week. I can totally back that claim up by opening the large plastic storage bin in my closet that is stuffed, to the proverbial gills, full of her missives.
She'd write about sports; she loved her Detroit Tigers, and rooted for Detroit teams in other sports; mostly, though, she was about hating rival teams, which is pretty amusing, considering how dainty and refined she was. She hated the Cubs, she hated any University of Michigan team, and she always referred to Toronto's baseball team as "Those nasty Blue Jays."
She'd write about politics; after my dad passed away, she really refined her inner pissed-off liberal. She wrote lots of letters to newspaper editors, too. I'm sure she was probably known as "that lefty" in Grand Haven, which just makes me smile a lot. When I'd go over to visit, I'd see her tuning in something like Rush Limbaugh, and I'd say "Mom! Why do you watch him when he irritates you so much?" and she'd say, "Have to see what the enemy's up to."
Once I started watching General Hospital a few years ago, she'd write her opinions of the latest storylines and characters. She had little use for too much kissy-face in the plot - she was more in it for the secret agent capers and Luke's banter - and had even less use for any of the teenagers on the show. She always bemoaned the arrival of summer, when the teen plotlines would be pushed to the forefront to attract kids who'd be home all day for three months. She didn't try to sugarcoat her thoughts, and she'd say things like "Somebody needs to slap Carly's mouth shut!" She wasn't wrong.
She'd write about how the weather had been, and what my siblings and other relatives were up to. Sometimes she'd include a little reminiscence from her childhood, never anything huge or dramatic, but just little details she remembered, and would just jot down out of nowhere in my letters. I always really dug that a lot. Stuff about cans of soup in the pantry and flood refugees and my grandmother making eggs...just random stuff, kind of a "by the way" moment.
I don't remember exactly when, but at some point she began including pages from a cat calendar that Squirl gave her (and, obviously, continued to give her). She'd always include at least two, and sometimes three. And darn, we all know how much I hate lookin' at cats. Mom adored cats, but hadn't had one of her own since the early '90s, so it was nice that we could still share kitty moments. I think everybody in our family reverts to about five years old in the presence of animals, especially of the feline persuasion. Blame it on Mom.
Last Wednesday, when the mail came, I realized there was no letter from Mom, would never be another letter from Mom, and that's when the concept of losing her finally came home to roost. The hospice nurse told us that the real kick in the chest would come later on, and for me, that was the moment the reality of it socked me as hard as it could swing. No more letters from Mom, something that had been a constant in my life for so many years. Squirl told me that maybe that would be the hardest Wednesday, and that each one would get easier and easier. I know it will, but I'm still dreading mid-week's arrival.
I miss her, we all miss her so much; if you'd known her, you'd miss her, too.
Some of the search terms that sick bastards have recently used to find this blog (although, I guess that kinda makes me a sick bitch for matching their search terms, but that's not news):
deepthroat kielbasa (a nice twist on the seen-several-times-a-day "kielbasa queen" search)
buttplug (okay, so they got me there)
monkey rituals (I'm afraid to know what they meant by that)
man's penis (as opposed to a woman's penis?)
up my ass (wonder if they got the same pages the buttplug people did)
scene of death (they probably got my nudie photos)
dr. 90210 bleach anus video (because I want my pucker to glow in the dark)
where is bucky the chimpanzee today (I like to think of it as a spider monkey)
midget pee (when you're going for quality and not quantity)
Okay, don't get used to this, but just this once, I'll not inflict yet another round of kitten pictures upon ye. I don't promise to show this much restraint in the future.
However, for those of you who are as addicted to tiny whiskered faces as I am (and I don't mean Danny DeVito in a beard), I've uploaded a handful of new Friday and Thirteen pics to my Flickr account tonight.
And, just so you know, since this coming Friday does happen to be the thirteenth...well, expect a visual celebration* of certain diminutive felines who have invaded my room and overpowered me. Consider yourselves warned.
*And by "celebration" I likely mean Photoshopped and/or real humilation of said petite pussies.
When I logged into my Blogger dashboard to write this post, I noticed that my number of posts was 666. I guess that makes this post the Whore of Babylon.
TV shows that have me totally enthralled: Project Runway (duh), Weeds, and Dexter. I can't tell you how blissfully, awesomely, orgasmically thrilled I am that Jess switched us over from HBO to Showtime. Let's face it - the new season of The Sopranos will be at least twelve more years in the making (barring contract disputes), and I'm not invested enough in Big Love to be that heartbroken if I miss it. Last night, I saw my first episode of Dexter (it was the show's second eppie), which is a riveting series about a police blood spatter expert who also happens to be a serial killer by night. He's a sociopath who uses his "hobby" (human vivisection) to deliver vigilante justice. The thing is, you can't not root for him. It's completely twisted and I couldn't look away. Color me hooked. I'm also quite addicted to Weeds (oh, like that joke's never been made before...), a show about a suburban mom who grows and sells pot to support her family after her husband dies. I'm just coming in on the second season, and I love it so much that I just ordered the first season on DVD so I can catch up. It's just so wrong. Mary-Louise Parker is absolutely brilliant and hilarious as newly widowed Nancy Botwell, a mother of two who suddenly finds herself in the role of local chronic dealer. The first episode I saw featured Nancy's pre-teen son learning about the finer points of masturbation from Nancy's charming yet dope-addled brother-in-law (the kid learns new uses for a banana peel, and develops a whole new interest in fruit...I can never look at bananas the same way again). The show is a woefully short 30 minutes, and it's always done before I'm ready for it to be done. Couldn't they make it an hour, just for me?
Eeyore peed on me as I slept last night. Apparently, though he tolerates being in the same room with the kittens, he felt the need to register his protest. Either that, or he was trying to frame Friday and Thirteen for the crime. Too bad for Eeyore that even both kittens peeing in tandem could never pee that much at one time. Busted!
I paid off my student loan today! Ten years after graduation, I can finally toss that albatross into the meat grinder. Now I can work on my Master's degree. (three..two...one...) BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA! Um, no. That won't be happening. Not unless I can get a Master's in boob grabbing.
Just shoot me: Apple sent me an email this weekend, and instead of receiving my Mac Mini this weekend as scheduled, they won't be able to ship it until late November. Fuckers. If I had balls, they'd have me by 'em good and tight.
