Meet Stella Barbarella. I'm making a valiant effort to integrate her into my House of Spoiled Boy Cats.
Yes, because that's just what I needed...a third long-haired black cat. As if I weren't already confused enough.
Needless to say, my boys are not in the least bit pleased with this new turn of events. Eeyore is kind of resigned to it, and doesn't do more than give her a perfunctory hiss when he is forced to pass her somewhere in the house. Friday and Thirteen are much more dramatic about the whole thing, but Friday will at least forgive me when I bring him into my office/studio (the cats aren't really allowed in here, but I bring him in on occasion as he's a little less rambunctious/destructive than is Thirteen, and less likely than Eeyore to poop in the corner if he doesn't like the music I'm playing). Thirteen, however, has a stick up his puffy little ass about the whole thing. I'm guessing it's because he sees another cat who looks like him, and he's all "Oh, no you DI'IN'T!"
Stella hisses equally at all the other cats, which probably isn't helping things at all. Her favorite activity, though, is to climb on top of me while I watch TV on the chaise, and then to commence loudly purring and softly drooling on me. I get the impression she didn't get a whole lot of cuddling at her last home and she needs to make up for lost time.
Stay tuned as the feline drama unfolds before me...
Thirteen decided to forgive me last night, so I feel a large part of the battle is won!
Also, the story of how Stella found her way here: She originally belonged to the guy who lived across the street. She was always an indoor cat until this summer, when he decided to just cut his cats loose (there was also a pretty little Siamese who was then reclaimed by his ex-girlfriend). I was leaving food out for another stray, and Stella started coming over to eat. It didn't take long to gain her trust, and soon she'd come running over every time she saw me leave the house or pull into the driveway, telling me lots of cat stories and demanding affection. It broke my heart to see her getting left outside in the rain, probably not getting fed by anyone but me, and definitely not getting loved on by anyone but me, so I tried for ages to coax her into the house. It took a cold rainstorm to convince her. So we shall see how this plays out.
Stella is named after Stella Barbarella Zotis, queen of leathuh and the most kick-ass designer on season 5 of Project Runway.
No phones, no lights, no motorcars, not a single luxury
Ok, so I do have phone, lights, and a motorcar. What I don't have? Internet and cable. While I get that straightened out, I'm spending my time leeching internet off Squirl and various restaurants whose free wi-fi reaches the parking lot. It wouldn't really be a matter of urgency, except for the fact that I'm teaching now, so I really do need to be on here every day. Too bad nobody in my neighborhood has an unsecured network with a strong signal. *sigh*
I've also been putting in a lot of hours in the retail biz the last couple of weeks, and I can't see that slowing down any as Christmas hurtles at us like an oversized, overpriced asteroid.
This week, I learned something new from a customer. Apparently, Hustler magazine voted Grand Haven as the best place in the USA to lose one's virginity. I think I might give it a try.
Also, Eeyore threw up in my shoe. Just in case anyone was wondering.
And now, back to your regularly scheduled deprogramming.
I think there's even one song on there I've never posted here before. If it doesn't autoplay, just click on the name of the first song on the list, then click the song name that appears in the white area above the list - it should play the whole list in order then. Lucky you!
Will update when I've gotten the videos and non-music audio posted on an accessible site. If you can't stand to wait that long, here's Quasimodo's dick for your nostalgic viewing pleasure, you sick fuckers.
Even though I've been living back in Grand Haven for over a year and a half, it's not until recently that I've started to encounter people I knew in my previous life here (that's what retail will do for ya).
I've had cash-register run-ins with two guys who used to hang with my older siblings; one of them I recognized from the name on his check, and the other one could tell right away that I'm Tardist's sister. Come to think of it, there may be a slight family resemblance.
This past summer was the 25th anniversary for my high-school graduating class, and I thought it might be interesting to attend the reunion, partly out of vague curiosity, but mostly out of the desire to have a really bizarre series of stories for the blog. It's not like I had scads of friends there or anything, but I thought it would be interesting to see how people had aged, what paths their lives had taken; there may also have been a tiny bit of hoping for a little entertainment of the schadenfreude variety. Those guys who used to throw soaked towels at me on swim day in phys ed: are they married to ugly women? Check. The burnouts who used to verbally abuse me at my locker every day: are they unable to attend because of prior commitments to the county lockup? Check.
Oh, it could have been so satisfying, soft as an easy chair, but alas - my classmates are obviously slackers, too, as no reunion ever materialized. Or, hell, maybe they had one and just didn't invite me. Can you blame 'em, what with my planning to run around and check them for their misery index?
A big part of my curiosity is my wondering if I'd even recognize these people. Really, when you don't see somebody for 25 years, it's easy to forget what he or she looked like. Add a quarter century of saggin' and baggin' on top of that, and we're probably all abstract, wrinkly mysteries to one another.
Damned if I didn't look at a customer a few weeks ago and think "Fuck me in the ass with a side of bacon if I didn't go to grade school through high school with that girl." Sure, it's the 40-something version of that girl, and I guess we're not so much "girls" now as grannies, but I recognized her at first glance. It happened again last weekend, too, where a customer walked in and I thought, "I know her." This one took me a second longer to place, but sure enough - she was yet another classmate, one whose wedding I attended very shortly after graduation, back when a hall full of teenagers could openly drink beer and the police didn't lead all the tipsy adults out of the joint and into the paddy wagon. Good times!
With that in mind, I checked out the message boards on Classmates. com this morning. While browsing, I came across a note posted by a girl who'd been the ultimate tough, smart-mouthed broad in junior high. Back in the day, she alternated between being my friend and promising to beat the living shit out of me, a threat I never took lightly, since there was no question I'd have quickly been reduced to a puddle of Bucky goulash if she'd ever decided to follow through. I clicked on her profile: She's now a grandmother. BUT, a grandmother with a motorcycle and tattoos. I'll bet her grandkids mind her just as pretty as you please. The best part of her profile, though, was this gem she shared from junior high, something I hadn't thought about for over 30 years:
The funniest thing I can remember from school was when Bob Alger slugged Leo Zupin in the nuts!
Comedic gold, especially considering Bob Alger was a student and Leo Zupin was the Vice Principal. We all had the giggles about that one for a long time. Although now that I think about it, it would make more sense for most teenage boys to be slugged in the nuts on a regular basis. Adults don't generally need nut slugging, and when they do, they have wives to take care of that sort of thing.
I wonder if any of my high-school teachers are still alive. I'm just waiting for the day one of them comes into the store, recognizes me, and stage whispers, "Aren't you the little heathen dyke who used to come into my class stoned out of her gourd?" to which I will innocently reply, "You must be mistaken; I was never little."