I'm here, I'm queer, at least I'm not Britney Spears

So many stories to tell, so little inclination to do anything but snooze in the wreckage that is my unpacking effort.

The short version: I made my final trek to the new house yesterday with Eeyore, Friday, and Thirteen in the car. They were all SO good, especially Eeyore, who I expected to be mightily stressed. He wasn't, though - at least, he never gave me any indication that he was.

Friday and Thirteen immediately started tearing around the house when we got here, which is exactly as I expected. They're kittens, which means they're made out of rubber, so resiliency is not a problem. I was worried about Eeyore in a new setting, though, as he's such a skittish boy. But amazingly, miraculously, I needn't have worried, because Eeyore seemed to know immediately that he is the king of this castle, and though he has spent a little time hiding behind my Tom Waits poster, he's spent even more time strutting through the house, finding random spots for naps, as if he's trying each place out for maximum kitty comfort. He comes into the computer room and sprawls out where I can pet him as I work, and he's delighted to have me back on my couch again where he can stomp in my hair and head butt me in the face.

Today, Tardist was over with a couple of our friends. Thirteen, of course, was a total whore and was all over everyone the whole time they were here. Friday is a sissy momma's boy, and would only go through the room running, his body low to the ground. I don't know what he thinks anyone is going to do to him - it's not like he's ever suffered a moment's abuse in his spoiled little life. But as we sat and talked, I heard Tardist say "Eeyore!" and I turned to see my little king walking - not running, but walking - into the room with all these new people in it. He walked right up to Tardist for petting, and was right by the other folks, and he didn't even flinch.

So I think I can safely say that Eeyore is adjusting better than I ever could've hoped. That makes my cold black heart burst with a rainbow confetti of joy.

I have a number of other tales to recount, including my harrowing lunch with an internet predator last Friday. But I am tired, and my typing is even worse than usual, so let me leave you with one last blip:

Squirl and I went to Target last night - because when is it ever not a good idea to go to Target? - and when we were ready to check out, we got in line behind a family with a very young daughter sitting in their cart. As we loaded our houseware thingy stuffs on the conveyor, I heard the little girl exclaim "Buttcrack!" Squirl froze and looked at me, and whispered, "Did she just say 'buttcrack'?"

I nodded and we chuckled a little, then the little girl started riffing, just so as to leave no doubt in anyone's mind: "Buttcrack! Buttcrack! Buttcrack!" She was playing a solo on the one note she knew would please everyone. Squirl muttered to me, "You need to blog this."

So, folks - if I can't be coherent, at least I can bring you a family-sized serving of buttcrack.