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If It’s Tuesday….

Then it must mean I remembered a Monday post aaaaaaaannnnd….promptly forgot there were other days in the week.

Again.

Or, a giant conspiracy exists to hide the days of the week from my brain, thereby making me think it’s perpetually Monday.

Definitely one of those, but I’m really hoping it’s not the latter.

Either way, I don’t have a post for today and I’m blaming…umm…someone else.

So, here enjoy a kitty while I ponder this.

Allow Me to Introduce…

….Bugsy, the Insane…the cat who rooms with us.

Oh hai! I had a fluffy pillow, but I eated it

 

 

Tuesday. Is It Tuesday?

I have a double ear and sinus infection.

Again.

I don’t feel funny.

I feel drunk, only drunk’s more fun.

I apologize for my unfunny-ness.

Here, have some kittens.  And, I don’t mean like kitten-stew, I mean here look at kittens while I go try to remove the ice-pick wielding ninja from my ears/sinuses.

 

We Are Santa’s Elves

Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard about the “Elf on the Shelf”.

1..2..3…good, since that’s about how many of you there are that visit me every day I’d say 100% of you had.

And, thank you for visiting, by the way.

Well, I hadn’t heard of this amazing little elf until this year.  Basically, the story is that one of Santa’s elves comes to visit your house in December and sits somewhere watching the kids all day.  At night, he goes back to the North Pole to make his naughty/nice report to Santa.  The next morning, he’s found sitting in a different place than where the kids left him; proving that he has, in fact, gone to see Santa.

I’m not sure how long Santa’s elves have been spying on kids, but I really wish they’d been staying at my house every December when mine were little. 

Christmas woulda been a lot easier on Santa if they had.

So, this year I decided to give an elf to each of my kids for their kids.

I carefully explained how it works and then went out to buy the elves.

Only I couldn’t find any elves.

It’s Christmas and there are no elves??

After my third stop, I settled on little stuffed snowmen that kinda resemble elves.

Not really, but I figured I could sell this to the grandkids.

On Sunday I gave three families their snow-elves.   One of my grandsons was so not on board with the whole watching-you-all-day thing.   I thought he was going to refuse, but then I told him his elf was named “Buddy” and I guess that did the trick.  He carefully tucked Buddy into his mom’s purse and proceeded to be a holy terror for the next half hour.  Apparently, even at four years old, he understood the concept of the elf watching him at home.  That is until I told him that the elf sitting on the shelf of the cousin’s house we were at was watching him, too.  

Suddenly, he was a little angel.

I told my kids to let me know how the elf on the shelf works with regards to behavior.  I’m betting it’ll make a difference.

I still wish we’d had these when mine were little, because I never did find out who fed tinsel to the cat.

 

 

 

 

First, I shall eat all the tinsel. Later, I shall present you with sparkle-vomit and sparkle-poop.  You are most welcome.

Because I’m Lazy

I bring you a post about nothing.

Except kitties!

I am fearsome, yes I am! Just because my human named me Mr. Snookums, do not underestimate my ferocity!

Mr. Snookums?  George, did you hear that?  His name is “Mr. Snookums”!

What are you laughing at….Fluffy-Wuffy?

Superman kitty…showin’ off his superpowers!

 

So, Here’s the Deal

I have no clue what to write about.

Apparently, I’ve busted a few things – like my sarcasm button and my give-a-damn lever.

Sigh…some days/weeks/months are like this, ya know?

So, anyway, I just clicked “Add New” and decided to start writing.

See what happens, right?

Wanna come along for the ride? 

Strap yourselves in and keep your hands and legs inside the vehicle at all times. The crazy train takes many a twist, turn and dive.

It’s Friday here…and probably where you are, unless you are in Nepal and then I’ve given up trying to figure out what day it is there.

I’ve got a friend in Afghanistan right now. Don’t know where, or more importantly how, he is at the moment.  I also can’t imagine how tough it must be on his wife and kids. 

Finally got a break in the heat.  It’s only going to get up in the 80’s here today.  Now if it would only rain…..

I saw a very peculiar ad on Facebook yesterday. It was for “Holy Clothing”…something about being tired of boring choir robes and how they make snazzy ones.  Unfortunately, I clicked to the Home page and the ad disappeared.  I’m rather intrigued, though, and may go back and try to find it.  Might make a funny blog entry.

My cat is weird.

He keeps eating the plastic leaves on my fake plants and then puking on the carpet.

Why is he eating plastic leaves when there are plenty of real leaves he can eat and puke up on the carpet later?

Must be a matter of taste.

I don’t have a five-foot metal chicken, like Beyonce, but I did see one at a flea market.  He wasn’t named Beyonce, either.  He didn’t have a name at all.  He looked rather sad and lonely.  Probably because no one thought to give him a name.

I’m pretty anti-social.  I just realized how anti-social when I found out a huge quarterly meeting, originally scheduled for another site, has been moved to my location.

My first thought?

Damn…people…lots of them, and then I have to smile and be nice and be all like…”So good to see you!” and “Welcome to Texas!”

Blech.

They’re not bad people.  Not at all. Some, in fact, are quite personable.

It’s me..or maybe it’s them.

I’m gonna go with…them, definitely them.

Mental leapfrog.

I haz a bad case of it.

In Which I Am Terrorized By A German

My appointment, with a massage therapist, was for 12:30 and since I’d never been to the place I decided to leave early. It was really easy to find and I arrived a few minutes early. 

 The massage therapist, let’s call her “Kiki”, came out of her room and introduced herself.  She was quite delightful and had just a hint of a German accent.  

 She handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out the information requested.  Once that was done I could come into her room and get started.

 I glanced at the clipboard as the door shut behind her.

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot? 

 I was looking at the same type of questionnaire one receives when going to a doctor.   There was the front/back human with a “Where do you hurt?” and then the myriad of personal medical questions.  I ignored most of them and made it clear I have fibromyalgia. 

 (A quick trip to fibro-land…if you don’t know what fibromyalgia is, I’m not the one to educate you.  However, I can tell you that while a hand stroke across sore muscles is soothing and feels terrific, poking with fingers/knuckles/hot stones across those same muscles is excruciatingly painful)

 I entered the room and she told me to sit down while she reviewed my information.  I looked around the room and thought if I didn’t know better I’d think she was a doctor and I the patient. 

 Except for the really soothing music, dim lights, steam and the awesome-looking massage table that took up most of the available space in the room.

 Kiki:  So, tell me about your back problems.

 Me:  Well, I have four ruptured discs in my lower back and three in my neck.

 Kiki: (eyes widening) Wow! How’d that happen?

 Me: Five car accidents and one horse accident. (I then proceed to tell her about the car accidents and the horse…you know, the Reader’s Digest version)

 Now, things start to get weird.

 Kiki:  You know, my father always told me to be careful when driving.  To not trust the other drivers and to leave myself an out.

 Me: Yeah, me too.  Thing is, NONE of these accidents were my fault and, in fact, I never even saw the other car in three of them.  (chuckling) Nope, I just seem to have a bull’s eye painted on me.

 Kiki: (raises eyebrow) Well, you shouldn’t follow too closely…blah, blah…

 At this point I’m getting pissed.  I’m not here for Kiki’s views on driving or anything else.  I’m here for a massage!

 Me: Yes…um…am I to change into one of those? (pointing to some robes hanging on the wall in an attempt to steer her back on course)

 Kiki: No, those are if you have to tinkle during the massage.

 Me: (tinkle? really?)How long does it last?

 Kiki: An hour.

 Me: Oh, I should be fine then.

 Kiki: Go ahead and take off your clothes, I’ll step out, and then lie face down on the table.  Just call me when you are ready.

 I got undressed and lay down on the table.  I called her name and she re-entered the room.

 For the next 15 minutes I had the most wonderful massage experience I’ve had in a long time.  She was a little thing, but her hands were strong.  

 I guess she’s used to clients who chatter, so finally she broke the silence.

 Kiki:  How many children do you have?

 Me: Four and six grandchildren.

 Kiki:  I have four as well.

 Me: That’s nice.

 I fell silent hoping she’d take the hint…sigh, no such luck.

 Kiki:  Yes, I have four boys and two girls.

 Huh? That’s six….

 Kiki:  And, I’m a doctor.  That’s why I take an in-depth medical study. Of course I only work two days a week, the rest of the time I do this.  My specialty is high-risk pregnancies and I do preemie massage.

 Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot?

A doctor?  Highly skeptical I mumble something about how interesting that is.

 Kiki:  Yes, I come from Europe and let me ask you something.  What do you have for breakfast?

 Me: Wha..?

 Kiki: Typically, what do you eat for breakfast?

 I tell her, but mid-way through she stops me…

 Kiki: No, no…you must not eat anything microwaveable because you know ‘they’ just paid millions of dollars in a suit because rats exposed and people exposed to high levels of the preservatives they have to spray on the foods before they put the plastic over it..it caused cancer in all these people.

 I’ve slipped into the seventh circle of hell and am being held hostage by a crazed masseuse, bent on educating me as to every conspiracy theory the Internet has to offer.

Me: Wow…

 Kiki:  It’s true, my one son he’s working for the government of Spain and he has to get a letter from the FBI that says he’s okay…you know, because it’s the government.

 I’m still on spray-on toxins and don’t respond.  Please, God, just let her finish the massage…which, by the way was beginning to hurt as she poked me with her fingers.

 Me: You know that is painful.

 Kiki: I know.

 Me:  The fibro…

 Kiki: I know

 She presses harder.

 Kiki: You are all inflammation and your back is knotted up.

 Me: (whimpering) I know.

 Finally, she stops poking and goes back to rubbing the muscles in my back and legs.

 Kiki:  So, my husband and I we met in Germany. I went to elementary school in Australia and middle school in Ireland.  In high school, where I met my husband, I was in England.

 I’ve given up trying to keep track at this point and really, isn’t my hour up yet?

 Kiki: For most people a massage is a luxury, but for people like you – with fibro – it’s a necessity.

 Me: Yes, that’s true.

 Kiki: So, if you decide to come every month I will only charge you $50.  Because it is not a luxury.

 Me: Thank you.

 Kiki: You know, you need this, so for $45 that’s nearly half price.

 Math is obviously not her strong suit.  First she has four or six kids and now $45 is the new $50.

 Me: Thanks.

 Kiki: What is stress?

 Me: What?

 Kiki: What do you think stress is?

 Umm…having a massage by a crazed German?

 Me: I..well..

 Kiki:  I’ll tell you, it’s a poison that squirts from your brain.  Yes, it comes from the perpetuity gland.

 Perpetuity? Oh…she must mean pituitary…yes, she must have skipped ‘gland’ class in med school.

 Me: Um…

 Kiki: Yes and you can feel it.  Now the stuff I’m using on you now will get rid of the dead skin on your body so the nerves can retreat and the fibro can, you know, get better.

 Me: Mmmph…

 I was, by this time, seriously in danger of a full-blown fit of giggles and so I just buried my face in the towel and tried to shut her out.

 Kiki:  There! All done, and you know with the exfoliation most people pay $150 for that but it was my gift to you.

 Me: Thank you.

 Kiki: You get dressed and I will get you some herbal tea.

 Me: Okay.

 She leaves and I dress.  She comes back with the tea and it smells wonderfully of blackberries.

 Kiki:  What size pants do you wear, because you are not at all huge.  I have some clients who are over 600 lbs., but you have a lot of muscle.  I want you to write down everything you eat and what time and how much so next time you come we can discuss it. 

 Me: Uh…(seriously, I’m overweight but not by that much)

 Kiki:  Well, have a blessed day.

 As I left there I felt both extremely sore and relaxed.  I took the blackberry tea she gave me and after a sip, and mulling over the conversation we’d had,  promptly dumped  it down the nearest drain.

 When I got home I collapsed on the sofa, unable to move, and wondered if I’d ever get up again.

 An hour later I tried, and shrieking in pain, failed.  The cat jumped five feet in the air and ran to the next room where he watched me warily.

 I finally managed to roll off the couch and onto my hands and knees.  

 The cat, still shaken by the shrieking human from before, stood at the doorway and watched in wide-eyed alarm as I attempted to make it to my feet.

I finally succeeded, but since breathing was an exercise in extreme pain, I didn’t make it far before I decided the sofa was my best friend for the rest of the day.

By evening I could move a little better, and the next day although breathing was painful, I felt pretty good.

 One thing I know, for certain, is that I’m never going back there again. I don’t care if the new $50 is $45 and I’m in danger of being poisoned by my perpetuity gland every time I get stressed.

 The cat agrees.

Just Something I Wrote

I’ve written since I was twelve, and yes that was a long, long time ago.

One of the things I seem to gravitate to are children’s stories. 

About a year ago I started the “Angelo and Malcolm” series. 

Here, I present the first in the series.  

It is, of course, protected by copyright.  So play nice.

Angelo and Malcolm

Malcolm had always thought his personality was of the Errol Flynn, swashbuckling, type.

 Whoever Errol Flynn was.

 Malcolm, you see, was a cat, and he fancied himself a free-spirit. Sleek black coat, long sinewy body, he cut a magnificent figure. Always living by his wits, stealing his meals, and chasing the lady-cats all night long.

 His best friend was Angelo, and Angelo was a dog.  He was the kind of dog that made one think of Peter Lorre.

 Whoever Peter Lorre was.

 Angelo had the scruffy brown-black-grey coat of a true mutt, one eye that seemed to have a mind of its own, and liked to say “Yesssssssss” a lot. 

 “Hey Angelo, wanna walk the yellow line on the freeway?”

 “Yessssssssss”

 It didn’t matter the question, Angelo was a yes-dog. Maybe that was the reason he and Malcolm became friends so quickly.  Or maybe it was Angelo’s enormous heart, but more about that later. 

 Whatever the reason, the two started out on decidedly unfriendly ground…at least, that’s how Malcolm tells the story.

 Malcolm had been rooting through one of the better dumpsters in town, the one behind that swanky French restaurant “Chea Ronnie’s” onFifth Street, one night, when he had smelled Angelo’s approach.

 Ewww…dog!, thought Malcolm turning up his nose, do they ever bathe?

 Angelo walked right up to the dumpster, sat down and proceeded to stare expectantly at Malcolm.

 If that dog thinks I’m sharing this feast with him, he’s crazier than he smells, thought Malcolm as he could feel the dog’s incessant stare boring a hole in the back of his head.

 Swinging around, and arching his back, Malcolm’s luminous green eyes burned fire as he shouted “WHAT?” down to Angelo.

 Angelo just stood up, wagged his tail, and grinned – that happy, goofy, grin that only dogs seem able to create.

 “Oh no…no way…I’m not sharing this feast with you.”

 Angelo barked, his tail wagging harder.

 Malcolm sighed, “Fine…but just one bone.” He rummaged around a little and found a juicy t-bone just the right size to keep the smelly dog busy while Malcolm beat feet outta there.  He liked the dumpster behind  Tony’s Pizzeria almost as much as the one behind Chea Ronnie’s anyway.

 “Here,” he said as he tossed the bone to Angelo, “now skee-daddle!”

 Angelo lay down, and holding the bone between his paws, proceeded to gnaw away on the tasty treat.

 Malcolm jumped down from the dumpster, landing nimbly on all four feet of course, and taking a last look at the dog he sauntered down the alley.

 He hadn’t gotten very far when the unmistakable smell of dog assaulted his delicate nose once again.

 “What the….?”  He said as turning around brought him nose to t-bone with Angelo.

 “Oh no…don’t even think about following me!” He protested as he began backing away.

 Angelo barked, or rather tried to bark.  It’s not easy when you’ve got a big bone shoved in your mouth.

 He wagged his tail at Malcolm.

 “What is with you? Look, you smell, your table manners are atrocious, and dude you’re a DOG for cryin’ out loud! Now, shoo! Go! Leave me alone!”

 Malcolm turned to around and started running down the alley.  He looked back, after a few seconds, to see if he’d lost Angelo.

 Big mistake.

 When Malcolm turned back around, he ran head first into Butch.

 Butch was an enormous bulldog, and this alley was part of his turf.

 Malcolm, having hit the wall that was Butch, lay sprawled at the big dog’s feet.  His head was swimming, and his eyes…well, they just wouldn’t focus.

 “Well, well, well…boys, looky here…it’s a widdle puddy tat.” From somewhere a long way off, Malcolm could hear Butch’s taunting voice.  Worse, he could smell Butch..and if he thought that crazy dog at the dumpster stunk, well…he smelled like roses compared to Butch.

 Shaking his head, Malcolm stood up on wobbly legs.  He still felt foggy, and was having trouble focusing, but that didn’t explain the numerous menacing dog faces he was now seeing in front of him.

 Butch’s gang circled Malcolm, growling and snapping.

 Malcolm looked around for a high perch, something he could jump to  and escape this mob, but there was nothing.

 I’m in trouble, he thought, very big trouble.

 One of Butch’s cronies lunged at him, and Malcolm nimbly sidestepped the attack.

 Just then, he heard the scratching of paws coming down the alley at full speed.

 He looked up in time to see Angelo’s body flying into the middle of the circle of dogs.

 The crazy dog still had the bone in his mouth.

 Placing himself between the other dogs and Malcolm, he lowered his head and growled.

 Angelo, the scrawny little mutt was staring down a whole gang of  dogs who could tear him apart without breakin’ a sweat.

 Malcolm wasn’t about to see how this went down, so he took off running in the opposite direction.

 He didn’t look back, but if he had, he would have seen Angelo drop his bone in front of the angry mob, turn around, and casually walk away. 

 They didn’t follow.  They were too busy fighting over the bone.

 Picking up Malcolm’s scent trail, Angelo followed his new friend to a warm, dry, spot underneath some cardboard in the alley behind Chea Ronnies.

 “Yesssssssssss.” Angelo sighed as he laid down next to Malcolm and went to sleep.

 Opening one eye, Malcolm looked at the dog that had saved his life.

 “Whatever.”

 That’s how they became the best of friends.

 From then on you could often find Angelo telling the tale of his rescue of Malcolm – each rendition involving more and more enemies, and of course, more and more heroics by Angelo.

 Malcolm would roll his eyes, cluck his tongue, and pretend to nap as Angelo’s audience held their collective breath during these storytelling parties.

 A more unlikely, albeit devoted, pair you’ll never meet.

Friday, Friday, Friday!

Yeah, it’s Friday!

Unless you’re somewhere in Nepal or something and it’s Saturday.

In which case it’s definitely not Friday.

I think I’m causing a time/space continuum vortex-thingy in my head.

But, whatever, here where I am it’s Friday!

And, this week my weekend started today.  Which is Friday, unless you are in Nepal and it’s Saturday and it’s a normal weekend…only I won’t be here (in Nepal) on Monday.

But, wait…in Nepal I’m never here on Monday, right?  Because it’s Sunday for me.

Holy schnikees…where’s the Tylenol?

Here – look at this while I put my brain back in my head:

Squee overload in 3....2....1.....

Sigh….Really?

I have nothing to say, nothing to wax poetic or blog poetic or whatever poetic about today.

Sigh….

I know, hard to believe I can’t bloviate on something or wax on something or something on something.

Sigh….

So, you tell me about you in the comments…go ahead, no one reads this blog except the two of us. 

And, for inspiration….

 

Oh hai! Yes, I inspire...terror, that is.