Hey! Who put that there?

I can't complain about this winter. The old man dished out a mild one to Cleveland this year. But I can complain about all the garbage on my lawn.

My nextdoor neighbor Bill, a very nice albeit suspiciously single AARP member, is a pretty nice guy. But John pointed out the empty styrofoam hamburger container right next to his fence....but in our yard. Oh so that's how it is, now Bill?

This morning I saw something shiny hopping and flying around the yard. Hello, what's this? Oh, it's lunch sized potato chip bag turned inside out, now is it? Clever.

Near the mailbox, I spot something of an unnatural green color in the brownish grass. An empty 20oz Sprite bottle. I know it didn't fall out of my garbage can, cause I don't drink that vile stuff. Who drinks Sprite anyway? Highschool kids from 1989?

I'm not blaming it all on poor old Bill, who I only recently discovered was an AARP member due to the sloppy mailman's mix-up. This is what Spring is all about. It gets a little warmer and windy. And everybody else's crap migrates over to your yard.

Maybe I should pick it up and throw it away, only I'm worried that once I do, some more shit will come to take it's place. Maybe I should get out with my bullhorn, pump my shotgun and yell, "GET OFF MY LAWN!"


I'll show that insideout potato chip bag I mean business.

Easily Amused. That's me.

In a few minutes, The Office will be on. My favorite new show. This makes me love Thursday.

These are the things in life that make me happy. That and my fat ass catlksa fm just caused me to make a huge fuckin typo I will leave in because she insisted on sitting her little fat furry ass next to me. Climbed all over the laptop, stepped on my pinky, and I just got a nice whiff off her butt aromatics. Thanks, Lucy.

See, she does this because, Molly, is sleeping next to me already. Lucy is insanely jealous of Molly, the newer, younger, thinner, stripy-er version of her. Lucy smacks poor Mollycat with an open paw when she gets more attention. She's driving a wedge between us all because of her own insecurity.


Dear Lucy the cat,

You're still my first cat. I bought you with my own money and you were my first roommate in my very first apartment. We will always have that.

But lately, you have been getting too possesive. It's not exactly a good look for you. Not sexy, not sexy at all.

I still heart you, but you need to lighten up, I am not your bitch. In fact really, it should be the other way around, even though you're not a female dog, but a cat instead.

Anyway, I think we both know what I'm talking about, here.


Love,

Deb, your master and don't you forget it.

Captain Magic

If asked, my dad could write a book about the characters that come strolling into his shoe store. The range of crazies, strange cookies, and loopy folks that wander in to "buy shoes" come in all different shapes and sizes.

Most recently he had an old grumpy couple. The woman whined that the shoes my parents had special ordered for her "weren't pink enough". Her husband looked at the shoes and the picture in the catalogue that she picked it out from. "It's the same shoe, Ruth!" he yelled. "No, look at it. Look at the picture. The one in the picture is more pink. You can't tell me that this (pointed to the shoebox with a crooked finger) is the same one! I ain't buying it!" My mother, who was standing behind the counter, shrugged and my father said, "Well, ma'am, I don't know what to tell you." Her husband told her to "buy the goddam shoes already." She continued to gripe about it's lack of pinkness. Then her husband turned to her and told her to "Die, already!"

Then there's Captain Magic. My father tells the story best. An old man came in with the help of his wife. He could barely hold himself up, the left side of his body had completely failed him and his wife, who was considerably shorter than he, held up the other half. Together they hobbled in and he bossed her around as she did her best to fit him with shoes. "No! Not that way; pick up my foot! No, my other foot!" My dad stepped in to help. The man insisted he'd "walk" with him to find his size but my father told him that the store wasn't open that long.

When they finally found a pair that fit him just right, he was a happy man. His wife went up to the counter to pay my mom and he called my dad over. "Come here," he said and put his hand Dad's arm pulling him closer. "Nah, come here!" he said in a loud whisper. He was sitting in the chair and my dad was getting tugged down so low he practically had to sit on his lap. "I thought he was going to kiss me!" my dad later reported. When my father was close enough the man let him in a little secret, "You know, they call me 'Captain Magic'." "Oh yeah?" Dad asked. What the hell was this guy getting at?

He called over to his wife at the counter whose back was facing them. "Hey, honey, what kind of face does his wristwatch have?" She described my father's watch. He pulled on Dad's arm, "Gimme some money; a bill!" he demanded. Instead wanting my father to pay him for his parlor tricks, he just wanted a single bill for his next act. Dad handed him a five. "What kind of dollar bill am I holding?" he asked his wife and she answered "a five." The he asked her to list the serial number and she went on to do so in perfect order. "Wow, that's fantastic," my parents said.

Captain Magic is a retired magician. He used to preform with his wife as his assistant on cruise ships.

Feeling very proud of himself, he smiled. "You know," he said struggling to pull himself up from his chair, "I feel so good....I think....I can walk in these!" He got up, all six foot five of him and walked much like Frankenstein. He stomped one foot in front of the other and announced, "I feel like a new man!" Those words were immediatly followed by him falling flat on his face. The thump of his large body hitting the floor was so loud you would have thought someone had just chopped down a redwood.

Many weirdos have graced the store's presence and more will follow Captain Magic. But the store will be closed soon. My parents are getting ready to hang up the shoehorn. And maybe if we're lucky, they'll write a book.

On the Verge of Coughing Up a Lung Laughing...

This latest renter is riot. Mommy on the Verge is my kind of gal. In her spare time she likes to write obscene poetry about Michael Jackson and his fulltime lapse of judgement- Sharpie marker drawings included! Bonus!

If you don't think that's worth going over there, then I don't think I know you anymore. What kind of person would wander around my blog and NOT appreciate that? You people make me sick. But for the rest of you who do stop by, like good little readers, be sure to leave her a comment and tell her that I sent you- running for your life.

Ta Ta for now. AKA:TTFN.

Um, that's for, you know...THE KIDS.

As I have come to learn, you can never judge a book by it’s cover. Although I’m curious what my cover says about me, I know that it’s easy enough to fool someone for a short period of time that I am a mature adult. But after about ten minutes of acting like a real lady, I quickly lose steam. Soon enough my inner five year old laughs out loud at your futile attempt to cover your fart with a fake sneeze. And neither of us are fooling anyone.

I was in the children’s section of the library with Jack one afternoon. There’s a nice size play area with a couch for the grownups, miniature chairs and knee-high tables for the kiddies. A little blonde boy wandered over, without parent, to the train table. He and Jack made some small talk and then got down to business pushing trains around the tracks.

The boy came over to show me one of the trains while I was on the laptop. "Oh, that’s nice." I tried to get back to work but he insisted on describing the train’s features in detail. Then he started in with the questions. Not wanting to crush any of his beliefs in the meaning of life, I offered nothing but vague answers, "Oh, uh-huh, um yeah...uh...I don’t know...uuuhhhh," Where is this kid’s mother? I rubbernecked around and didn’t see anyone nearby that looked related to him. He finally took a hint and left me alone.

Another twenty minutes went by before the very social little-orphan-Andy’s mom finally appeared. She was blonde, pretty, well dressed and carried a Coach bag. "Hey, Sweetie, having fun? Yeah, well, anyway, we have to get going soon to Wal-Mart so we can buy that...toy you wanted! Are you done playing now?" Oooh, I wonder what he’ll say? "NO!" Parental rule of thumb: Never ask a child a yes or no question when you have already decided the answer for them. "Do you want to use the potty before we go, Sweetie?" "NO!" he shouted on cue. Duh, lady, duh.

She got down next to him and made a poor attempt to look him in the eye. I guess she figured that he wasn’t listening, when really, she wasn’t parenting. You know, if you’re not willing to watch your child in public places, then you probably shouldn’t expect them to listen only when you decide to check in just to order him around.

This kid’s thinking, "What? Oh, I see, now that I’ve been doing what I want to do without you around, you want to just surprise me with this piece of news? You want me to go sit on the toilet and then leave all this to go to, what, Wal-Mart was it? So excuse me if I don’t want to, I’m busy pushing trains here." What followed, was a little more difficult to understand with all the screaming and other things that went along with a tantrum. I wanted to say, "You go, Sweetie!" but she’d picked him up and carried him off before I could.

She brought him into the children’s bathroom which was only steps away and unbeknownst to her, did not have soundproof walls. She reprimanded the child at high volume, while the rest of the library got a free show. Then we were treated to the sounds of a small boy peeing. Oh, isn’t life grand.

When the boy emerged, he had an announcement to make, "Uh, you (pointing to the entire library) can’t go in the baffroom! My mommy’s in dere!" That’s curious, I thought, Last time I took Jack to go potty, there was only a tiny children’s toilet to use. It looks like a regular toilet, but it’s about a third of the size and really low to the ground. Jack’s only thirty-six inches tall and his feet didn’t even leave the floor when he used it.

What I heard next was not a tinkle, but more like what I supposed how it would sound if a sixteen year old was dumping out a keg of beer in a hurry because his parents came home early and were about to crash his underage drinking party. I could picture the scene clearer than I could hear it. Here’s this prissy mom; a full grown adult, squatting down to use a tiny potty.

I wondered if she was able to get all the way down and touch her ass to the seat, or did she go about a halfway and let gravity finish the job? And how the hell was she going to get back up without putting her hands on the disgusting bathroom floor for balance?

What happened between the-world’s-most-audible-public-urination-not-recorded followed by wiping-that-sounded-like-she-was-trying-to-fold-an-open-map and the actual flush, was a very long pause. I imagined that she fell over when she tried to get up. Her ankles were probably tied together by the pants she had push down so low that she might as well have taken them off. But eventually, she came out completely unscathed. She looked totally calm, refreshed, even.

If asked when I first saw her, I would have guessed her cover said she was a woman of wealth who probably knew which fork to use at a fancy dinner party. She carried a Coach bag and looked sophisticated, but she had fooled me and I’m sure the many others who were within an earshot of the children’s bathroom. Her true insides were revealed and the plot thickened. Yes, "Coach" and "class" both begin with the letter "C", but that’s the only thing they had in common when it came to her. And myself, I had to bite the inside of my childish cheeks, when she came back out. She hadn’t one clue what had just taken place. As she struggled to leave with her defiant son, I dug into my purse to write this one down in my notepad. I’m not sure what the cover would look like, but this one’s definitely going in the books.


Make sure you're taking advantage of our current renter, StumblingThroughLifeWithGrace. And I didn't mean it like that.
What I'm trying to say is that you better get your behind over there before time runs out and she moves on, and it could happen at any minute. So....HURRY! CLICK ON THE THUMBNAIL!!! Now, here's something to think about: Do you think she means that she's "stumbling through life, but doing it as gracefully as possible" or that she's inviting us to "stumble through life with Grace" and she's Grace? Do you get what I'm saying, here? Like she might actually be Grace and the whole "3rd Times a Charm" is just some kind of alias.
Dude, that's like, deep or something.

Mystic Tan on Leather

Outside of the grocery store one in a upscale neighborhood, I saw two posh ladies chatting up at the entrance. One a brunette and one a blonde. The blond was rail thing and wearing a little brown corduroy outfit with fur tim and short UGGS. Her hair was long, thick, and platinum in color. She had an expensive designer bag on her shoulder.

I just assumed she was the usual 35-40 year old rich suburban glamourpuss seen shopping there. But then she turned to the side, and I saw leather.

Orange leather.

It was so fucking shocking, I almost yelped. I probably did jump back a bit, but I don't think she noticed. She might has well had two heads, she was that much of a freak.

I was still getting over the sight. I mean, holy schnickeys, you can't go around looking all young and hip from the back and then turn into a fried egg yolk when you turn to the front. You gotta give some kind of warning. There should be some kind of a bumpersticker on your back that says; Brace yourself, I'm turning around., or I hoped you stuffed some Quilted Northern in your pants, 'cause when you see my face, you're gonna fall on your ass.

I couldn't shake that face. It was just like that middleaged, over-tanned neighbor from There's Something About Mary. And then halfway done with my shopping, I was about to come face to face with her.

She was pushing her cart toward me down the frozen food aisle. Then we met where a stockboy was stacking the Green Giant baby peas. I was stuck, there was not enough room for me to go around him and her and her cart. I thought I was gonna lose it for sure.

The unsuspecting college boy was looking at her feet and started to look up and answer her. The poor, unfortunate soul. I watched his face, while I winced inside.

He caught the face and momemtarily froze. The Leather started to re-ask where the creamed spinach was and as straight-faced as he could, he answered her.

I wish I'd had a camera phone. I wish I had a flipping film crew with me. It was pretty wild.

_________________________________________________________________

Accidently, an unfinished version of this post was published last night. I was positive that I had saved it as a "draft". Anyway, I think that "Charlie"-aka starkist tuna, and "Amy"-incredible off-the-cuff-poet, will be a little thrown off by this. But I'd like to thank them for their comments on what was a pretty dry bit of a post. You should read these comments, especially Amy's.

charlie said...
They would be chatting about something really profound. No?
21 March, 2006

Amy said...
two posh ladies chatting at the doorone a dark haired beauty

one a fur trimmed corduroy wearing whore

the dark haired beauty was listening intently

as the blonde was gossiping relentlessly

when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

i sprang from my bed to see what was the matter

and as the blonde suddenly realized she had somewhere better to be

she told the dark haired beauty that she had to go pee

the end
21 March, 2006

debbiecakes said...
Good Lord, Amy. That was impressive. I think your comment should have been my post instead. Funny thing is that I didn't know until just now that my post went up-it's only half done, I swore that I saved it as draft-Blogger's been fucking with me.
21 March, 2006

A 100,000 Major Cows

Hey, you. Yeah, YOU. As long as you're hanging round my blog, why don't pay a visit to the latest liar that's smiling?

She's a little bit nutty, I'm a little bit outta control. I think we make a great BlogSlumlord/BlogTennant team. StumblingThroughLifeWithGrace is part personal diary and little bit of self-analysis, and it's being analyzed by a woman who goes by the name "3rd Time's a Charm" and refers to herself as a neurotic, closet bitch.

You can also redecorate the place, you have a couple of blogskins to choose from. Maybe that doesn't sound like anything exciting to you, but I think it sure beats those lameass paperdolls with flimsy paper dresses with the tabs that broke off after changing her only once.

Anyway, I've got this feeling that she's gonna end up over there on that links sidebar thing. A couple of past tennants already have, and I'll only add ones that I think are worth going back for more.
________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: This is going to be another one of my mini-series posts. I can't tell you the whole story in one sitting, you'll be at risk for bedsores if you read it all ar once. Yes, coming back to read more parts will be a different kind of pain in the ass, but it'll be more like a dull ache. You're also not going to find out the meaning of the title either. Sorry, Charlie, but that's all part of a little thing called "suspense". And if you like that sort of thing, then go and read about all my adventures as a weightloss consultant for Jenny Craig parts I and II. You'll have loads of suspense in store for you over there. Some folks are still waiting on parts III and IV which haven't even been written yet. Aye, me loves a good suspense, Matey, along with talking like a pirate.
_______________________________________________________________


Carey was one for falling hard and obsessing at length about any boy that looked her way, even if not directly at her. Now she was madly in love with five boys at once. They were better known to the rest of the world as The New Kids On The Block.

Maggie had already come over and we had to coax Carey to do the same. She wouldn’t leave because she wanted to watch some "New Kids’ special", so we lied and said if she came over she could watch it at my house. She said she knew we wouldn’t do it once she came over, even though we promised....and then she came over. And while she boo-hooed we snickered behind her blubbering back, we didn’t care about her lame terms or the good of our word.
She begged us to turn on the New Kids. "Uh, no thanks?" we said. We giggled and laughed and threw every easy boy band joke in her direction. "Like, why do you like them anyway? I mean what’s the point? You do know that they’re gay, right? Tee hee hee heee heee hawaaa..."

Normally she cared what we thought, being that she was so insecure, but this time it didn’t matter what we said, this was real love and nothing was going to come between us and her five loverboys. She was completely devoted them. She was willing to drop everything, leave home to become a full time groupie and follow their every move. She would have done it, too, but she was fourteen. I bet her rich parents would have sponsored her, but you know, the neighbors might look down on them for supporting her obsession with pretty boys rather than having her finish school.

After all that whining with But they’re so cute, and my mom doesn’t know how to use the VCR so I can’t tape it!!! I finally flipped the channel. "Alright! Fine! There; happy, now?" Maggie and I sat, arms crossed, watching these five boys perform synchronized jumping and singing on a stage in front of a bunch sweating, screaming girls that, besides the sweating and screaming, looked a lot like us. Total Fluffchicks. We were the sort of preteen girls that spent more time on their hair than there homework. Looking at the crowd of AquaNet bangs, I could almost smell the grape Bubbliscious through the TV screen.

The smallest and presumably the youngest New Kid stepped up to lead microphone and sang something perfectly crafted for a middle school slow dance. It was sweet and he was....kind
of...cute. "Of course he’s cute! He’s Joey!!! See? I knew you guys would like them!!!" I told Carey to shut it. Nobody said they liked them, I was just making an observation. Maggie and I kept on with the sarcastic remarks and Carey kept on getting all hot and bothered, shushing us which would only add more remarks to the well deserved ridicule. We couldn’t help ourselves.

Maggie: Look at all those losers in the front row.

Me: Why is that chick crying?

Maggie: Hey, that one’s crying, too; what the hell?

Me: There’s another one!

Carey: SSSHHHHHH!!!

I didn’t get it. Maggie and I admitted that they weren’t that bad, and some were kind of cute even. But what the hell was all that crying about?

The Man with a 'stache

When you’re young, all you ever want is to look older. You just want to be able to at least pass for an adult so that you can get a taste of what it feels like to do whatever you want. But when you look back as a grownup who actually looks their age, you can’t help but wonder what you were thinking. You were sure that wearing your mother’s lipstick and eye shadow made you look like a distinguished woman at High Tea, when really, all it did was make you look like six year old tramp.

When I came across pictures of John with a mustache, naturally I was curious. Was that a real mustache or had he glued on a fake one for a costume party? If it wasn’t real, then why was he wearing it in this photo of him at the the 1994 New York City Marathon finish line? Surely it would have started to slip off with all that running and sweating. But when asked about it, John confirmed that it was in fact real.

I wanted to know more. How did it come to be, the mustache, that is? Why did he have one? How long did he have it? More importantly, how and when he decided that he was a mustache man? Those men are few and far between. You don’t see a lot of them nowadays. My dad was and is still a mustache man. It’s his trademark. You’d think he was born with one, he’s had one for so long that seeing pictures of a younger version of him without one is startling.

Beards indicate that a man's a roughneck, a trucker, a biker, a tough-looking hippy, a hunter, a hard worker. It could also mean he’s a Hassidic Jew, marooned on a deserted island without a razor, or extremely depressed and has lost the will to shave. A goatee is most popular with outcasts, nonconformists, and beatnick poets who wear turtlenecks and berets. A mustache is a different kind of facial hair that takes a certain amount of gumption to carry off. They have been seen on distinguished actors and actors not so famous except to those who frequent adult movie theatres. They can be worn by comedians or even New Age Musicians who date Linda Evans. Although the mustache can be worn on many different men, the one thing they all seem to have in common is a need for the warm glow of a spotlight. But John’s not the type of guy who wants to be noticed, stand-out, or even remembered for that matter.

At a social event with people he doesn’t know, John makes himself scarce and leaves his coat on always prepared for a quick getaway. So finding out he’d been a man who had a mustache shook everything I thought I knew about him right to the core. What was lurking beneath the surface of this so-called quiet, nice guy? I needed answers.

So not wanting to wait one minute longer, one day I just asked him. "So what’s up with the mustache?" I said pointing to a picture of his past. He was visibly uncomfortable with the question, "Uh, I had one, once?"

That wasn’t an answer.

"Well, for how long? When did you have it? Did you just recently shave it off? I mean I don’t know what I would have thought if you had a mustache when I first met you," and I pictured the awkwardness of that moment if things had gone that way. "Weird."

"I used to have one a few years ago, okay?" He sounded sort of pissed off that I asked him about it.
"Well, I mean why did you have it? Did you think it was a good look for you? They’re kind of dated and it looks a little creepy on younger guys." Maybe it was my tone of voice or the continuous pestering, but he’d had enough and walked away.

I followed him.

"What? What’s wrong? I just want to know." He kept moving around his apartment trying to look too busy to answer and I continued behind him, asking more questions. Maybe this ignoring tactic worked with other people in the past, but not with me. When I need to know something I turn into one of those investigative reporters, the kind that starts chasing down the guy who sells meat out of the trunk of his car, yelling questions out while he shoves a defiant hand into the lens of the tv camera.

When he stopped answering, I started to do it myself, with my own conclusions. Maybe he was that guy who starting sprouting fine hairs above his lip during puberty and then never bothered to shave it off. I came up with that one after seeing his high school graduation picture in his parent’s house. He looked so sad in it, like he was so dissatisfied with his life. But then again, who wasn’t miserable in high school? It’s the single worst time in your life. A confused and sometimes teenager with complexion that reads like a mood ring you get from one of those gumball machines they have by the front door at Denny’s. His hair looked like a Dorothy Hamill haircut and wore the tell-tale puberty mustache. And below that was a bored mouth. His eyebrows gave more of a questioning expression, but not one rooted from curiosity, more like inside his head he’d been asking himself why, why me?

John was hoping that I’d just drop the whole thing and leave him alone. He was not so lucky.

Over the following weeks I would find a way to drop the word "mustache" into everyday conversation. "You know some people say my father looks like Groucho Marx, I guess because he’s a short Jewish guy who wears glasses and...has a mustache."

We’d be out to lunch, "Hey, that guy over there has some food on his face. I wonder how long it’ll take before his girlfriend tells him to wipe the egg salad off his mustache..."

Flipping channels I’d say, "Look! Magnum PI! I used to love this show. Remember how much everyone was so into Tom Selleck? I don’t know, he never did anything for me, maybe it was because of the mustache."

I imagined that everytime I said the word he get all fired up and yell out, "Alright! You wanna know why I had a mustache, is that it?! I’ll tell you why!!!" But my passive-aggressive prying wasn't getting me anywhere. It was as though he had know idea the painstakingly lengths I would go through to work something so offbeat as a mustache into a conversation.

After a month of playing this psychological game of roundabout questioning and avoidance, I asked him directly. "John, I need to know why you had a mustache. Don’t be embarassed, I just want to know. I won’t laugh, I promise." He just rolled his eyes and became defensive, "What is the big deal? I had a mustache, so what? Who cares?"

"You act like it's so friggin' personal, it's just a mustache. It can't be that sore of a subject! Just tell me and I promise I’ll never mention it again!" I pleaded. After plenty of time for my overactive imagination left it’s own without some much as a hint why he had it, he gave me a boring answer. "I grew it because I wanted to look older. I was sick of getting carded at bars. Okay? Are you satisfied?" Hardly.

That was it? That was his whole reason for wearing the mustache? It wasn’t even an entertaining enough story to tell people at a dinner party. What about all the colorful scenarios I came up with?

So, no, I was not satisfied. I had more questions. "So how long did you keep it?"

"I don’t know, a while."

"Well, did you ever get carded again?" I was grasping at straws.

"No, I don’t think so."

Mystery solved, I guess.

"Family Night!" Not as exciting as advertised.

Before you read anything else, you should check out the new renter Gussy Up. I know I'll be over there snoopin' around. And if you have a stupid looking blog template like I do, you should be over there too. That's all I'm gonna say 'bout that.
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Last night we went to this thing at the preschool called "Family Night!".

That's right.

It was lame, as you might have guessed.

It's nobody's fault that the turnout was pathetically low, but it is my fault for wasting my money.

No cover charges or tickets were required to get in, no bands, no booze, but there probably should've been, would have lightened up the party.

It did cost me, though. I'm on the "hospitality committee" and we're the ones who set up the food and decorations for these little shindigs. So, I was in charge of a cheese and cracker spread that would be enough to feed eighty to a hundred people. I also had to bring two-hundred plates, two bouquets of flowers, and the vases to hold them. What did I get myself into? Glad I signed up for the playdough making committee next year...

I got there early to set up and a lot families were already starting to arrive, no one that I recognized just yet but it looked as though it was gonna get hoppin.

The families of the two and four year old preschool classes were set to be there from 6-7 PM. Then our class, the three year olds' families, were supposed to show at 7 and stay until 8.

So when I asked my mom to come with me, John, and Jack, I had it in my head that just about everyone was coming and they were bringing extended family. That's what the whole point of "Family Night" is, it even said so on the flyers they handed out to advertise the whole even. But when we all got there at 7:00, there were a ton of people, but no one we knew. I felt like we were at the wrong party. We saw Jack's prechool teachers and talked to them, but where in the hell were the other 3 yr olds?

Major turnout for the two and four year olds' families. Well, aren't they special. But it looked like we and four other families out the roster of twenty-three in Jack's class, were the only suckers to show up.

The following is an open letter to all the other families that didn't show up for no good reason:


Booooooo! BOOOOO! You other no-shows SUCK! Do you know that I spent over $40 on flowers and plates, and good fucking cheese and crackers that I hand sliced myself just to see almost all of it thrown out at the end of the night?! Huh? Did ya?

I'm giving you all the stink-eye next school day,

Deb

Orange Kitty

Quick annoucement: My Corner of the Web has moved out. Why don't you just check out our two-named renter, Suzanne/Keadamna, one last time. Or even more than that. You can go back as many times you want. It won't hurt my feelings, in fact, it will probably cheer the old girl up. She's feeling a bit "BLAH" today- her word.
----------------------------------------------------

We all know a few famous felines. (Say that three times fast without slipping in "fuck") There's Morris, Garfield, Smelly Cat, Tom, or is it Jerry? Anyway, I got one of my own. Orange Kitty.

Orange Kitty is sort of a raggamuffin tramp. Last Summer, my son Jack and I were opening the door to play outside when out of nowhere he appeared. Jack was excited because he was friendly and would let him pet him. But I was worried. Here was this poor lonely pet without a collar or a home I assumed. He was so sweet and hungry and kept trying to slither his way into the house between my ankles and the screen door. But since I already have two cats of my own, I wasn't having any of that. Adult cats do not take to new roomates kindly. So, we'd pet him, give him a snack, and water outside. And outside he stayed.

I told John about him. I was getting concerned since he'd started coming around every single day. He'd just sort of hang out and sunbathe on the patio, much to my two indoor cats' disaproval, I might add.

"What if he's homeless? Should I try to trap him and take him to the vet? Maybe I should post 'FOUND: ORANGE KITTY' flyers around, what do you think?" I asked.

"He doesn't look too skinny, I'm sure he belongs to one of the neighbors."

Then I had a brilliant idea, I was going to make a collar for him. I grabbed a piece of thick elastic and sewed it into a collar- I didn't get too fancy, and then I wrote in marker: Am I lost? Please call 123-456-7890.

Then next morning I strapped it around his neck and he went off with it. It was kind of exciting, it felt like I was sending a message off with a pigeon. What if he was from Alaska? Who knew how far that collar would travel?

At around ten o'clock that night, we got a call...from down the street. He lived just around the corner.

The owner apologized, but I told him it wasn't a big deal I was just wondering if he was a stray. The guy said the cat, who's name was Tommy, just showed up on their doorstep all skin and bones about a year ago and they've taken care of him ever since.

So Tommy kept coming by the house, but I had stopped feeding him. My son and I would pet him and let him hang out with us while Jack played outside.

Then one Sunday shortly after, John had come in from running. He had come across Orange Kitty on the road. He'd been hit by a car. I was so sad, and I felt guilty, and I was pissed at the owner for not keeping a better eye on him or at least strapping on a collar. Then I thought maybe John was wrong. Maybe it was a different cat?

But we never saw him again. That was last September.



About two weeks ago an orange and white cat came stolling onto our patio and layed down to soak up the Februrary sun. I looked out the window and couldn't believe it, it was Orange Kitty. I went outside and he ran up to me, purring and rubbing up against my leg like no time had passed. Jack was so excited.


We don't know what the real story is behind the other cat. But he's been on my patio every morning like clockwork. Orange Kitty's back.

People Magazine's Smelliest Man Alive!

I caught a few minutes of the Baba Wawa Special last night, and it was just enough. Just enough for me to hear about how Matthew McConaughey has not worn deodorant for the last twenty years.

For all the cheap, funky smelling bastards who aren't willing to part with a buck for some Speedstick, Matt's just keeping the dream alive.


------------------------------------------------

On a better smelling note, the renter has a name, and not a mulitple personality disorder like I feared earlier. It's Suzanne. Not "Suuuzzze" or "Annie". It's Suzanne. And her name is not "Susan", though she sometimes goes by "Sue". But she also goes by "Miss Jackson" if you're nasty.

I'm still going to call her by her full two names. I'm formal like that. She even tries to explain her aliasessessss in a recent post. I don't need to do all the talking, here. Go read it for yourself, you goddamn lazy ass. And if you don't like it, you can go sniff Mathew McConaughey's underarms, Armpit-sniffer!