Worse for Wear Royalty

You will never get rich working in the publishing business. But there are some cool perks, which make up for the small paycheck. Like when you publish a book about bars in your town, and you "have" to attend the author event a.k.a. a bar crawl with really cool, hip people. I was only able to go to two bars before I realized that the poor Funasaurus was probably withering away in front of his video games, dinnerless, because, ooops, haha, I forgot to call to say I'd be late.

So after chugging two very full glasses of red wine, I began chugging water and shoveling in fries (which is not hard, anyway, but when said fries are coated with garlic and parmesan, it's almost impossible to not start in on your neighbor's plate when you finish your own because damn they are good) so that I could drive safely past all the cops monitoring for DUIs early on a Tuesday evening.

The Funasaurus had ordered some Pizza Hut by the time I got home, which hit the spot, although I am feeling quite bloated, this morning. I spent most of the rest of the evening sprawled across him watching Scrubs, until about 10:00 when I was like, "Oh, heh heh, by the way, I invited a coworker to dinner tomorrow night."

The Funasaurus, not being the type to really care one way or another, didn't really react until I was like, "So we need to clean now." And suddenly he was all wide-eyed and sweet and wondering, "But... bed?"

To his credit, he got up and cleaned up a bunch of mail, did the dishes, and cleared off the coffee table after only mumbling something about "Could this not have come up, like, an hour ago?" very quietly.

So we went to bed a little late, but I wasn't concerned until both Tatum and Sugar decided that tonight was definitely a cuddling night. They would take turns walking all over us, finding just the right spot (my kneecap, The Funasaurus' neck) to flop down on, and then stand up again and start to come knead my shoulder. That is when I realized that it had been quite a while since I clipped their nails. Ow ow owie ow ow ow.

This morning, as I dragged my sleepless, slightly hung-over self out of bed, cursing Wednesdays everywhere, I decided the claws WERE GOING DOWN. I showered to clear my eyes, picked up one Tatum who was all, "Mouse? Are you getting me a mouse toy?" and curled my body around him, wielding the claw trimmers.

It eventually dawned upon Tatum that there would be no mouse involved in this plan, so he decided to bust that popcicle joint pronto.

There was an attempt at a backwards escape through my abdomen, and while perhaps a bit soft, it is very solid, and foiled that plan. Then there was the breaching whale maneuver, which involved some serious height and twisting on ol' Tatum's part, and this time my chin was able to intercept the break for freedom, and we got a couple of nails done before the sideways launch that was very much like some NFL play I am unable to identify, not really being into football. At all.

Go Broncos.

So anyway, we got Tatum's front claws trimmed, much to his dismay, and then I went after Sugar. Who was resting on a heating pad that The Funasaurus had turned on for her. Gee. Wonder which one of us she likes better.

I got the Look of Death as I picked her away from the heating pad, and then I got the scream for mercy as I picked up the scissors, despite the fact that I had yet to actually touch her damn paws. She didn't stay on my lap, and the procedure was finished by me bracing her between my legs on the floor, much like wrestling a very white and fluffy miniature alligator.

I finally headed off to work, looking much like I slept on a block of concrete in an alley last night, between the lack of sleep, hungoverness, and bruises from two small but will-come-at-you-like-spider-monkeys kitties. Where is a weekend, when you need one?