Subversive Cross Stitch. Ah, if I’d only thought of that first… I have enough cross-stich pattern books and cross-stitch alphabet patterns that I could probably put together a “Go Fuck Yourself” for myself. I could hang it by the front door, because really what could be more warm and welcoming?
* * *
I read
On Writing for the third time last Monday night. It’s such a good book, though I find the C.V. section far more interesting than the writing tips (which is not to say that I couldn’t
use some writing advice from Stephen King, but I’m far too lazy to put them into practice). He grew up in Durham and attended Lisb0n High School, y’know, which is where I went to school as well, and it’s cool to see him mention people and places that I know.
Which reminds me – when I was in high school, several of the teachers who taught there (and probably still teach there), went to school with Stephen King and claimed to be friends with him. Yeah, they
wish.
Anyway, I read this line:
I found the idea of social drinking ludicrous – if you didn’t want to get drunk, why not just have a Coke? Hell, I’ve been saying that – or something similar to that – since I was in my early 20s. I totally don’t get social drinking at all, don’t really care for the taste of alcohol, cannot stand wine (and I’ve even tried the terribly expensive shit), and haven’t been drunk in at least ten years, when I had a fight with my best friend and got as shitfaced as I’ve ever been, and ended up barfing up a lung several times before passing out on my bed, and waking up several hours later still a little drunk.
Every now and then I’ll have a drink – I had a strawberry dacquiri with Liz at Applebee’s this past summer – and since I’m such a lightweight I’ll catch a buzz about halfway through the drink, and then I remember “Oh yeah. I
hate this feeling. I should have just had a Diet Coke.”
I
want to like the taste of wine. You wine-lovers wax poetic about it, and make it sound so good, but it just does nothing for me. Like coffee, I suppose it’s an acquired taste.
* * *
The Bean, ever since we got him (has it been a month? Something like that?) has never been a terribly affectionate cat. He’d let you pick him up and pet him and snuggle with him, and he’d purr like mad and meow a trilling meow, but he never sought affection, never came up to you and insisted upon being picked up and loved. Miz Poo howls and howls until you pick her up, and then she snuggled onto your shoulder, and she purrs loud enough to make the entire house vibrate, and she will stay there for hours or until something catches her fancy and she goes to check it out.
In the last week, however, the Bean has become more friendly. He’s started jumping up on the counter in the morning while Fred’s throwing his lunch together and rubbing up against Fred. He’s started laying against me and stretching fetchingly until I rub his belly. This morning when I came in from working out and sat down on the couch to call Fred, the Bean climbed up on the pillow next to me and rubbed and sniffed and purred and rolled around.
Maybe he was withholding his affection until he was sure he’d be around for a good long time?
* * *
Okay, you know what? I REFUSE TO DO MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING UNTIL AFTER THANKSGIVING. Stop advertising the “Under the Christmas Tree” sale. Stop talking about Santa showing up at the goddamn mall when November is barely a week old. Is it not e-fucking-nough that you fucking bombard me with Christmas ads and Christmas movies and Christmas sales every fucking day from the day after Thanksgiving on? You have to start three weeks BEFORE Thanksgiving? Because the more you advertise your fucking sales, the less likely I am to buy from you, motherfuckers!
I swear, if it were left up to me, I’d leave the country from Halloween until New Year’s Day every fucking year.
Fucking radio ads.
* * *
Also, I am sick to DEATH of hearing about Jessica Lynch and Elizabeth Smart. I don’t want to hear any more about either of them, I don’t want to watch the stupid movies about them, I don’t want to read their motherfucking books, and I don’t want to see a fucking TV ad about them every 10.2 seconds. I’m glad they’re fine, I hope they live long and happy lives, NOW I WISH THE FUCKING MEDIA WOULD SHUT THE FUCKITY FUCK UP ABOUT THEM.
* * *
Very early Saturday morning – around 5, I think – I woke up and lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why I was awake. I finally realized that I was hearing a distant kind of moaning sound. I sat up and took the earplugs out of my ears and listened some more. It was an almost rhythmic moaning sound, and I thought for a moment that it might be the Bean, who is still wheezy (though not
Weezy) despite progressively stronger medication in the weeks since we adopted him. I decided it wasn’t that, and listened some more. As I stared toward the door, I realized that Spanky was sitting near the door, staring out. And then Spot jumped up on the bed, looking nervous, and stared in the direction of the door.
Ohjesus, I thought immediately.
Someone’s in the house and they’re hurting Fred or the spud! Or maybe Fred dropped weights on himself and he’s hurt and can’t get out from under them, and he’s moaning in pain!
I got out of bed and put my nightgown on and slowly walked toward the door, expecting at any moment to see a strange man coming toward me. As I reached the top of the stairs, the sound got louder, and I realized it was coming from somewhere downstairs. It was also clearly the sound of a cat losing his shit. Miz Poo and the Bean were sitting at the top of the stairs staring down with some interest.
Ohjesus, I thought.
Someone’s in the house and Tubby’s trying to defend hearth and home!
I went to Fred’s bedroom door and knocked. From the other side, he mumbled a “What?”, and I opened the door.
“Come out here,” I said. “One of the cats is going nuts downstairs!”
Fred followed me back out to the landing at the top of the stairs, and then stepped over Miz Poo and the Bean, and walked down the stairs.
“There might be someone in the house!” I whispered hysterically. Fred ignore me and kept going.
“It’s Tubby,” he said when he reached the living room. Tubby was sitting in front of one of the living room windows, his tail bushed as big as it could be, and making a scary, half-growling half-howling sound.
“There must be something outside,” Fred said, and just as I hissed “DON’T JUST OPEN THE DOOR WITHOUT LOOKING!”, he flung the door open.
There, on the other side of the window, sat an orange cat, who was puffed up and growling. Fred chased him off, and then we went upstairs to lay in bed and talk until my pounding heart stopped, uh, pounding.
“So, you thought someone was in the house?” Fred said.
“Yes!”
“And yet I notice there was no gun in your hand!” he said disapprovingly.
“I thought about it!” I said.
“Yeah, and that could have been the last thought you’d had!”
Hmph.
* * *
Pet store kitties are
hither.
* * *
Heeee’s too Beanie for his fur, so Beanie it hurrrrrrrrrts…
How can this possibly be comfortable?
A year ago: Pictures!
Two: The cats continue to be terrified of the big slobbering thing living outside.
Three: “Who the hell’s this from??? It’s signed ‘your father’, but I have no idea who it’s from!!”
Four: Twice he bounced up and flailed his front paws at the butterfly/grasshopper, and on the third bounce, he hit the fence with his back feet and actually ran paralell to the ground for three or four steps before pushing off, flipping over, and finally landing on the lawn.]]>