Here's just about the most unnatural thing you'll ever see in your life.
Picture stolen from my friend Cherie (who is pictured here). I'm guessing this is from 1992, 1993 at the very latest. We were having a Meijer party at the Ambassador in Flint (which is now a Rite Aid...excuse me while I mourn the fireplace and the strong drinks), and my boss at the time decided it would be fun to hand me her baby. Can you see the panic in my eyes? The panic in my hair? How do I hold this thing? What if I drop her? What if her mother won't take her back? I'm still scarred from the experience.
Truthfully, though, if lifting babies would make me that skinny again, I'd go all Mary Poppins on your ass in a heartbeat.
A seed-spitting contest would have been more civilized
Mom's been gone for over two years now, and I still dream about her on an almost-nightly basis.
I'm the last person who would classify my dreams as anywhere in the vicinity of "normal" - if I shared most of my nocturnal subconscious adventures, you'd all probably track me down and team up to lace the straitjacket - but when Mom makes her appearances, it's usually as a casual observer to whatever demented scenario my brain cooks up for my dining and dancing pleasure.
But not this time.
Several nights ago, I dreamt that I was walking down a flight of stairs, and noticed little pieces of watermelon scattered all over the steps, the floor, on the railing...it was MelonPalooza (which would be an excellent name for a topless bar, but I digress). When I inquired as to the source of the haphazard fruit explosion, I was informed that my mother and my sister had gotten into a knife fight. With each other. Apparently, the watermelon was a proverbial innocent bystander, a victim of "I rolled into the wrong place at the wrong time."
Rushing into the adjoining room, I found Mom and Squirl, disarmed and unharmed after their impromptu slashfest. They'd been told to sit down and calm themselves, get control of their tempers, and there they both were, sullen but less stabby expressions on their faces...each with a plastic champagne cork in her mouth. The plastic corks, you see, were to help regulate their breathing and chill them both out. Obviously.
Sure, it was only a dream. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'm being extra nice to Squirl, because one never knows when one's sister might lose her shit and cut a bitch. Or a bitch's melons.
Oh, hell, is it that time already? Time to flip over the calendar, time to flip that underwear, time to clean the litterbox? Yup, it does seem to be a new year already. Guess I'd better write something before my blog is condemned for lack of occupancy.
I've become a little too involved in what the Real Housewives are doing, whether they be in Orange County, New York, or Atlanta. Please, Bravo, do not leave any lag time in between installments; it makes me feel wonderful, as I sit with my generic ginger ale, my no-name chips, and my decidedly un-pedigreed felines, to observe the spectacularly fucked-up lives of vapid women with more money than brain cells. My dream is to one day witness a bare-knuckled boxing match between Vicki from Orange County and Ramona from New York. It might not compare to the random delight of seeing Vicki take a football to the back of the head at Lake Havasu, but it would still call for popcorn, a comfy chair, and the phone off the hook.
Stella was such a tiny, skinny li'l thang when she wandered up onto my porch last summer, looking for food and love and food. Well, lemme tell ya, the girl does not miss a meal around here; I couldn't even begin to locate her ribs anymore. She also feels the need to comment on anything and everything, earning her a theme song of her very own, Kitty With a Lot to Say. Also, following in the litter-dusted footsteps of King Eeyore Bubbies Flippytail, Lord Thirteen Sarsparilla Puffington, Esq., and Duke Friday Aloysius Ptang Ptang Olay Biscuit Barrel Tuxbury, Stella has now earned a royal title: Marchesa Stella Barbarella Foofinella Rotunda.
Disapproval with every glance, at no extra charge!
I've reached the stage in life where I've put up the Cap'n Crunch and replaced it with Raisin Bran. My need for fiber has finally outweighed my sweet tooth. Now, if everyone would please whip out the kazoos and play a lively rendition of Taps in memory of my youthful colon...
Speaking of Taps and asses, it's been about a year since I've tapped anything, ass-wise. All work and no foreplay makes Bucky a cranky bitch. Now taking applications for sluts with low standards. No high-maintenance princesses need apply, but if you've got lots of cash, that'll put your application right at the top of the pile. And by "pile" I mean empty inbox.
The Monitor and the Merry Mac: The monitor on my Mac has officially gone belly up. Its glorious 19 inches will stay alit for an average of five seconds at a time, which kinda puts a damper on any music projects I might be attempting to begin or complete. On the one hand, I could probably replace it for a little over $100; on the other hand, I could use that same $100 to keep the heat on in my house. It's a tough call, but ultimately, keeping the heat on will save me money in replacing burst water pipes and nipple-torn blouses.
Friday's bullying of the other cats has of late elevated him to the status of Evil Gay Boy. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's been emulating Dr. Smith from Lost in Space.