Morning Surprise

I woke up late this morning with a Benadryl hangover. All fuzzy-headed and drowsy, I walked into the kitchen . . .

Huh. What the hell is that in the water dish?

Huh. What the hell is that by the water bowl?

Huh. What the hell is thOH MY GOD WHO IS BLEEDING?

Pug check. Jack check. Bennet--was in her kennel all evening so unlikely but check her anyway. Sammi cat? Where are you, kitty? Ack!

She seems fine, now. Her rumpled-y ear is all swollen, and yes, bloody. However, she's been purring and cuddling and basically being herself. We'll be gong to the vet in just about an hour; I expect we might get a cat lampshade out of the deal. She's napping comfortable on The Boy.

Holy shit, though. Fucking 5 plus feet of blood spatter in the morning before coffee? REALLY? Is this entirely necessary?

Tuesday Redux

Tonight was a quiet evening. I got out of work in a pretty good mood, mostly because I'm off tomorrow and don't think there is much my co-workers can do to fuck up too badly while I'm gone. After admonishing them to try not to do anything irritating in my absence, I left for home.

In the car, I heard a Christmas song about a dude standing in line behind a kid buying shoes for his dying mother. The kid wanted his mother could look nice if she met Jesus on Christmas eve. A Christmas song about shoes, dead moms, and standing in line. Fun. Wish I wrote that.

I came home to meet The Boy. We were going to go get a Christmas tree, but it is rainy and crappy outside, so instead we went out to forage for food. I embraced the shame and we went for buffalo shrimp, which in the Lou is a fraught experience involving a trip to Hooters that I don't want to talk about but have to admit before The Boy snitches my ass out. There were buffalo shrimp, and the place was almost devoid of other customers, which was pretty much all I had hoped for.

On the way home, the car began making a new and distinct noise. My car health philosophy is exactly the same as my personal health philosophy--wait to see if it gets better. It didn't get better; it actually got worse. The Boy and I decided that it sounded like dragging. The good news is it's not a bum. The bad news is that it will require actual repair requiring something other than zip ties. I'm hoping a half-assed tack weld will do the trick. I'm willing to let the guy at Meineke look at my boobs or something if that will help. I'm not proud.

Speaking of not proud, after we retired to the house, we shared some valuable time vegging out in front of our laptops, where I found this, and had a big snotting, sobbing cry.

Yeah. D'you have a pet growing up? Yeah? Grab a tissue. Grab the BOX.

Merry Christmas

Well, my effort to be all cute and hostess-y was thwarted by the cocksmacks at eVite and their stupid limit to the size of photos that they will let you upload. The bastards. I'm sure that I could cut down the size of the photos I'd taken, but wrestling the beasties has left me exhausted and unwilling to fight with my computer.





I think Jack looks mighty damn cute, even if the look on his face suggests a gulag survivor.




Peanut butter. The ultimate dog training tool. If it will make The Beast hold still while wrapped in Christmas lights, I'm not sure what it can't do.





Bella looks so fucking cute in her Santa Suit that I wallowed on the floor after bursting a blood vessel in my brain.

Good Morning, Marmot

On my way to work in the mornings I pass by what I think must truly be one of the ugliest corners in North St. Louis County. A swath of brown, weedy grass to the right of the highway exit runs up to a rusted chain link fence. Beyond that is a patchy parking lot in front of a singularly unattractive building supply warehouse. Beyond that? A Waffle House, a Super 8 Motel, and some other unfortunate NoTell Motel.

The fact is, though, this particular ugly is more than the sum of its parts. Ever been to a crummy dive saloon and see some drunk dude down at the end of the bar with a bad case of summer teeth and B.O. who insists on telling unsuspecting neighbors his sad fucking life story; a story made all the more sad by the fact that all of his problems were largely of his own making? This street corner is that guy.

Or, it was. A few weeks ago I noticed some creature standing in the patch of grass. At first I thought perhaps I was seeing things and that it was time to stop drinking cheap gin, but no. My mom takes that same exit to get to work, and she had seen it, too. We even saw it together when we carpooled for a week.

I have seen him several times. Generally, the wee brown beastie stands majestically, if squatly, with his back turned dismissively on traffic. Instead, he surveys his vast domain—the weedy patch of grass—with a proprietary air. He is, it seems, busy. He cannot be bothered with us stupid humans and our stupid cars. He has all this ground that needs looking after.

After several days of wild and fruitless speculation as to the nature of the beastie (“Is it a beaver?” “It can’t be a beaver, can it?” “What do I know from beavers?”), it was finally determined that this particular critter is a groundhog. We think.

You know what, though? I don’t even care. On the mornings when I exit the highway and I see the fat little thing hanging out in the weed patch, it completely makes my morning. More even then coffee. Today was exceptional, as there was not one but TWO groundhogs doing that which groundhogs do. One was ignoring traffic, while its little friend waddled about in the background hunting for food or breaking in new shoes or whatever it is groundhogs do in the morning.

Good morning, marmot. It’s going to be a good day.

Kate Does Nothing Day

Last night, the woman at the grocery store didn’t recognize my eggplant. In a world of foodstuffs, I would have thought that the distinctly purple eggplant would have stood out. I was, it seems, wrong. She also mistook my cilantro for spinach, en error that I can’t even follow because one, the only thing they have in common is being green and two, the checker had just rung up the spinach that I did in fact buy. The spinach was easily distinguished by the large, white lettering that read “Spinach” across the front.

I then went home to make a meal for The Boy and me. Black bean burritos with fresh pico de gallo. This was meal was followed by a carbohydrate coma so profound that I wound up having to hide the pillow on which I dozed off because it was so sodden with my own drool. That’s the last time I add rohypnol to my black beans.

After our nap, we took Bennet for a walk. Bennet spent most of her time trying to trip and/or drag me while The Boy and I spent most of the stroll discussing the possibility for a series of children’s books featuring Bennet and my other beasties. Some titles:

Bennet and the Short Bus to Obedience School
Bennet and the Rolled-Up Newspaper
Bennet and the Remote-Control Shock Collar
Jack Does Nothing Day
Bella Destroys the World

and my personal favorite

Bennet Goes to the Korean Deli

Yes. I fully expect to go to hell. That’s okay, though, because my work life of late has done a fine job of preparing me for an eternity of suffering.

The details of the disaster are irrelevant, but I will paint a quick picture in broad strokes. I took a promotion for the opportunity to start up a new corporate department in a brand new facility. Our computer system is notable not only for the things it does not do well, but also for the things it does not do at all. I have spent the past seven weeks either doing nothing, doing nothing and pretending to do something, or testing the worthless software.

I finally realized yesterday that it will require a miracle, a-hand-to-god-Gabriel-on-a-shaft-of-golden-fucking-light-comes-down-from-heaven-and-saves-our-asses-miracle, for this project to do anything but disappoint and frustrate for the first year or so. After that, ho knows? It might just be too late. I am at peace with it, though. I keep up my corporate charade, then I go home and complain to my wonderful boyfriend and drink myself into a stupor. Thus does time pass.

Adding insult to injury, though, today we have corporate muckety mucks come in. I suppose that this is to re-emphasize to us, the peons, the importance of lying to people outside the building. Fine. Something different at least.

Through it all, though, I’m going to keep a smile on my face by imagining the following exchange:

Muckety Muck: “So, how do you feel about being here at Exciting Corporate Startup?”
Me: “I wish my mother had aborted me.”