Oh crap, I didn't buy candy and my house is probably going to be egged as a result
UPDATE: Thirteen wins for best costume.
I was having a traditional pumpkin-scented Hallowe'en bath when little mister zen got too relaxed on the edge of the tub, and before I could prevent gravity's inevitable practical joke, he was drenched and in a panic to get out of the fucking water fer chrissake! Oh, how he scrambled to get out...the bathroom is a little more wrecked than I usually leave it.
Poor, miserable, soaked-down baby. Of course, as a concerned mommy, I sprang from the tub (okay, just put that picture out of your mind; it ain't pretty) and grabbed a towel and a camera, all in one tawdry nekkid motion. Here's what he thought of my brand of sympathy:
Go ahead, laugh at his indignant lips and un-puffy tail. I'm sure he'll find it hilarious once he's dry.
Now, back to your regularly schedule programming:
The inky clouds conspire to make a Toupeed jack o’ lantern of the round orange moon No dignity, no dignity at all for the face of Hallowe’en Might as well slap on some wax lips while you're up there.
Did you hear the stomping and the clanking and The hooves clattering? That was me, dancing with the devil Casting shadows so deep you’ll never get your hand back I walked away, just walked away No look back for another quick two-step No longing glances or winks or numbers exchanged I said, “Thanks for the dance, you sonofabitch,” And I left him there with his smoking dick in his hand.
There she goes again Across the face of the toupee moon Tangled hair as long as the broomstick that Lifts and soars but never quite sweeps. But no broomstick for me, thanks; When I need to fly I've got the Seat of my pants and the Skin of my teeth. So take a deep breath but Don't miss a beat Because nothing can come of an Unplanted seed
Cherry, that is. Well, she doesn't really fuckin' hate me, but she is not happy to be here, not one little bit. She's tickled to fawn all over me at the farmhouse, but she wants nothing to do with living in my happy home (I think she's all snobby about living in a trailer park).
The boys have been giving her all the space she wants after she growled tirelessly at them when they tried to investigate her upon arrival. Friday gave me a neatly wrapped package of "Fuck you, mommy!" at first, but has since allowed me to pet him, and might even have let a purr slip out accidentally, so I think he and I are still alright. Thirteen has been sitting on the counter, apparently dumbstruck that Cherry didn't want to be his buddy, and Eeyore as much as shrugged when she growled his way.
Cherry, for her part, has shown her further displeasure by hiding under my bed, except to step out occasionally and yowl her protest as a feline hostage, or to deposit a large mound of protest on the floor just past the litter box. It looks like she's going home tomorrow morning. *sigh*
Do I still qualify as Crazy Cat Lady, or am I being stripped of that title?
The larger pussy is the one that's probably coming home with me at any moment now (and if she meshes well with the boys and stays, her name will be Cherry Darling).
Is it just me, or is she sticking her tongue out at her small protege?
I'm currently watching a rerun of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire with Regis hosting. Voluntarily.
There's a strong possibility that I will be adopting a new cat soon. She is a mellow, lapsitting sweetheart, and is an unusual visual combination of calico, cow kitty, and tabby. Once I get some flea treatment on her, I'm going to bring her home and see how the boys react to her. I'm thinking an unassuming female might not cause too much unrest and revolt among the spoiled trio already here. Because, um, I really need another cat.
My DVD of Planet Terror (Robert Rodriguez' half of Grindhouse) arrived last week. I've watched the director's cut more times than I care to admit, whether I'm paying full attention to it or just have it on in the background. I've seen all the special features, listened to the commentary, and even played it one time with the audience reaction backing track. I think I want to have Robert Rodriguez' babies. Oh, wait. I think he has enough already.
OK, I get some brain points back for not being able to stand Millionaire and changing the channel. Oh, look - Sin City is on! "She doesn't quite chop his head off...she makes a Pez dispenser out of him." Gotta love a movie where the deadly whores rule their own turf.
I can't seem to write a post that isn't a list. Just be glad I'm not posting those pictures of my bare ass on the copy machine at Walmart. Or the one at Meijer. Or that one in the corner at the library. I, ah, I get asked to move on and not return, kind of on a regular basis.
Things that need sayin' to people who need to hear it:
To Nilbo: Hearty congratulations on the birth of your daughter's baby, which makes you a...ummmm...a grandmother shagger.
To the powers that be at General Hospital: I have demands. Put the actress who plays mob lawyer Diane on contract. Let Spinelli and Georgie hook up already. Put Sam and Jason back together. Give Ric his personality again, fer chrissake. Thank you.
To all the people who tried to prevent my getting laid yesterday (and there are a lot of you on that list): HA HA. I outwaited you all. Every last one of you. Nyah. It's like my own version of Survivor: Outwit, Outwait, Out-Lay.
To the asshole who slashed all the tires on my neighbor's truck: Please don't come back for a repeat performance. And please don't even notice that I have a car in my driveway. Oh, and I hope you choke on your own pubes.
To the person drawing the MegaMillions numbers on Friday: Keep me in mind, 'kay?
To the giant deer carcass in the middle of M-45: Ewwwwwwwww! I know you're deceased and all, but did you have to be so gross, and appear so very suddenly in my path? I hate it when dead things sneak up on me.
To the two guys smirking at me in the party store: There could be any number of reasons why I looked like that. Any number of perfectly innocent reasons. Maybe, just maybe, I buttoned wrong on purpose.
Can't even tell we're related, can you? Could if I wanted to, Poop Breath.
Yesterday was Tardist's 50th birthday, so of course I went to his house and we acted like 12-year-olds with access to beer and cake. I think sleep is the only thing in which I did not overindulge this weekend. But at least I'm young enough to keep up, unlike my elderly brother, who is now eligible to join AARP.
Since he hasn't updated his own blog in, oh, two years, if you'd like to leave him belated birthday wishes, you can do so here. And if you'd like to send me some Alka Seltzer, that's perfectly acceptable, too.
The bad news is: I'm going to have to sell a kidney to pay my bills this month.
But that's why we have that extra kidney, right? Can I interest you in a spare lung? Half a spleen? One well-seasoned labium? The Parts is Parts auction will commence at noon.
On a totally unrelated note, my sister requested a picture of Thirteen's lips. Then I decided that everyone should have the chance to enjoy the view, so here you go:
Through a small but effective campaign of begging and pleading, I have been given permission to post a couple of pictures from the body-painting session last Friday night.
Internet as a Whole, meet Molly the MILF.
From the front...well, as much as you get to see.
Her name isn't really Molly, but she is a MILF. Molly is the name she asked me to use here (I tagged on the MILF part myself, only in the interest of accuracy).
Back view...again, just the mildly non-dangerous parts.
I know this isn't exactly the sort of pussy pictures some of you were hoping to see, but the fact of the matter is, this pussy has been in my face all day.
Lately, Thirteen has developed an obsession with me. That's not a complaint; I'm obsessed with my cats, and it touches my heart when they return the favor. Friday is a neurotic little mama's boy who gets so overzealous when he's having a purring bout on my lap that he usually farts all over me. Eeyore thinks (not without some justification) that he is my little boyfriend, and he frequently herds me around the house with that "Woman, come along now" look on his face, he sleeps on top of my head while cramming his nose against my head and/or face with all his might, and he knocks the phone quite forcefully out of my hand if I dare to have a conversation while lying down. But Thirteen? He's always been pretty casual about it all. Sure, he wants his lovin's, but he's always been content to amuse himself much of the time, and never seemed to be too needy in the affection department.
I'm not even sure it's an affection thing with him right now. He just constantly appears, usually in flight, launching himself at me while I'm trying to work or chat. Well, except for when he launched himself at Squirl's bare legs on Sunday...that was a dangerous outfit, sis. But mostly it's been me he wants. I'm used to his jumping up into my lap when I sit down on the toilet, but lately he's been leaping toward my back, but only with a half-assed effort, so that he only gets halfway and digs his claws in. Now, he's not a big cat, but fuck, it still hurts like a sonofabitch! He's constantly getting up on me in bed or on the couch, but he won't just sit still and let me cuddle him like he used to. Now he's restless and purrs but nips at me, then attacks my feet (which is not unexpected, but still...).
Today while I was trying to work he was just flying up into my lap over and over and over, tromping all over my keyboard and never letting me put him in any position that actually let me continue to do anything but pet and/or restrain him. When he does finally decide to get down for a while, he goes on a rampage through the house and knocks shit over. Do I have a teenager on my hands? You think I should've named him differently?
As I've said about him so many times in the year I've had him: Thirteen, you're lucky you're cute.
If I could save time in a bottle, it would be a Corona bottle with a wedge of rotted lime in it
At this particular moment:
I am eating a Jethro-sized bowl of cereal for dinner because I am too lazy to cook and, for once in my life, I do not want pizza. Why can't Long John Silver's deliver?
I am looking around my spot on the couch, where stray papers and empty plates and empty beer bottles and magazines and half a dozen different remote controls tell the story of my time spent at home lately, and I'm grateful I'm not having any company over tonight.
I am doing an emergency load of laundry because I realized that the only clean panties I have are ones that should be burned.
I am wishing I could keep this kick-ass rental car that I've decided to drive until Monday morning.
I am hoping that the spirits of brilliant plastic surgeons will give me a boob lift and tummy tuck in my sleep.
I am acting so ADD I have to laugh at myself. STOP LOOKING AT YOUTUBE, KATY!
I am writing a pretty much pointless post when I have about 20 other things I need to pull together in the next couple of hours.
I am stopping now, hitting "publish" and stepping away from the computer.
The road to hell is littered with the pieces of my car
So...remember how I was joking that the PT Cruiser knows it's paid off, and is in the process of self destruction? Well...that joke just ain't fuckin' funny anymore, guys!
My brakes have been shit for a couple of weeks, grinding and making all kinds of awful noises and just barely doing their job. I was dealing with it, and was looking into alternative (cheap) mechanics to work on it for me. Annoying, but I was getting by with it, just being careful, staying off the expressway, that kinda stuff.
So, last night I hopped in my car around 9 to go see a friend, and instead of starting the engine, all my key turn got me was an unpleasant clicking noise that I'm pretty sure isn't supposed to be happening. Squirl happened to be in the neighborhood and stopped by, and she's pretty sure my starter is fucked.
And so am I. Now I'm looking at towing charges, brake work and whatever lovely parts they need for that, probably a starter, and labor. Here's the part where you notice that my knuckles have gone white because I am grabbing my ankles with such vigor.
So...who wants to come over and work on my car? I'll cook for you, really I will, and I'll even get out the good plates (duh, the ones that are shaped like monkey heads). I'll let you watch my Robot Chicken DVDs. Come on, how can you pass up an offer like that?
(ps - I will not pee on you, though. Please stop asking.)
I just can't be bothered to put two thoughts together today, and thought I would share my ADD spell with you. You may thank me with cash and other valuables.
Right now, I should be checking into my Chicago hotel room and prepping to rush the stage at the Amy Winehouse concert. Only problem is, the tour's canceled, and I'd be mighty lonely at the Aragon (though my chances for a stage-side vantage point would seem to be improved). So, no Amy. But then again, I should also be checking into my Detroit hotel room, as I bought a ticket to see Joss Stone tonight when I found out that Amy had postponed her show. Of course, then the brakes went out on my car. Yes, that wretched car that knows it's just been paid off. So here I am at home, missing my two British divas. Here's a little Joss to make us all feel better:
Friday bit my chin so hard that it drew blood. I believe he felt I had not been sufficiently punished for daring to leave the cats alone last Thursday. It felt like a message, like "Next time, you lose a tit, biatch."
Things I've said recently that, even in context, are a little odd:
"Do you want some ice for your Pucker?"
"Quit biting my face!"
"I'm not mad! In fact, I'd respect you a whole lot less if I found out you made your sick kid go to school because mommy is getting some nookie today."
"Should I stick a lime in yours?"
"Who cares? They're not my sheets."
"Somebody needs to tell that fucker to put the dick back in his mouth and stop whining."
After drawing and painting nothing but male characters for most of my life, it seems that the only paintings I've been able to finish lately are ones with a female subject. My companion piece to Whore Clown in Decline sits unfinished, as I got to a certain point on him and just could never decide what to do next. I'm hoping to get over that with my newest painting, which will feature at least two male subjects, one of whom is a character from a soap opera. Doesn't that sound like a crystal-clear cry for help?
Speaking of paintings, I never showed you my last completed one here. First, you should understand that in this house, the closest thing I have to a religious display is my autographed picture of Dita Von Teese in her giant martini glass. In fact, if you do not think Dita is hot enough to turn a priest's eye from the altar boys, then you should go sit in the corner until this post is finished, and reflect upon your astonishing lapse in taste.
Anyway, I did my last painting from a vacation photo that Dita posted on her site, and because of the personal nature of the original picture, I hesitated to display the painting outside her site. So, I am posting it with a complete willingness to remove it if she should in any way object to its presence here.
Dita's Mackinac Island Fudge-gasm, 8" x 10" acrylic, 2007
I am in TV heaven right now with Dexter and Weeds running concurrently, the finale of Top Chef 3 this week, and Project Runway 4 just around the corner. And Squirl is looking at this right now and thinking, "Yeah, and you also have my Desperate Housewives season 2 DVDs, and about five of my movies..."
