The Umbrella Drinks ARE Good!

Hello from Jamaica! It’s lovely here. I have time to blog because SURPRISE! I am already burnt to a crisp. I spent two days lacquered up in SPF 80+ in a hat, hiding under umbrellas and trees and other shady places, and managed to do o.k.

However… today, I was not allowed to wear sunscreen. At noon. At the equator. In the ocean. So I am now burnt to a crisp, hiding out in the dark recesses of our unlit hotel room in a vat of aloe, probably for the remainder of my honeymoon.

And it was worth it.



The Funasaurus needs to watch out, I’m in love.

I'm An Idiot, Mon

Who’s stressed? AAAAACK!

Fucking things are not going my way. I mean, they kind of are. But also not. As in:

Overpriced pedicure = full of bubbles

Overpriced haircut = multilayered SKUNK on my FUCKING HEAD. That was not quite the look I was going for, for my honeymoon. But o.k., fine, normally my stylist gets it so right that I was just surprised she thought the crusty urine-colored streaks in my otherwise dark brown hair looked o.k. She gets one more chance to redeem herself (maybe two, she’s pregnant, I guess I could cut her some slack) before I go elsewhere.

Amazon = …well, they didn’t mess anything up. But they didn’t factor in my stupidity, which, I feel , as a long-standing customer, should be in their records somewhere. I ordered a great multitude of books last-minute, and they were due to arrive today. Close-calls give me a rush. So I was anxiously tracking them, because, hello! What am I going to do on the beach for a week without an army of trashy chick lit? And then the thing said “delivered” except, no, they most certainly were NOT delivered, because I have been sitting here in my house all day, monitoring the front door for any deliveries.

So I naturally began to have an anxiety attack, and promptly called Amazon, and they said, “Our systems are down, call again later,” which, really, could they be more dismissive and ambiguous? So I said, “Thank you, have a nice day,” (MOTHERFUCKERS), and went out and unsubtly checked out all of our neighbors porches for a block, because UPS often delivers to the wrong address around here. They kind of have this “close enough” attitude about their deliveries.
Nada.

So I continued my freak out, and then tried tracking it again, just in case the driver had realized his error, and driven back to reclaim my precious package and deliver it to my door. Wouldn’t it be great if “delivered” was crossed out, and it said, “Realized our error, carefully running package straight to you in my strong arms!” Sadly, this was not the case.

But I did notice an extra S. As in, not UPS, but USPS. So I tracked the package on their website and it was saying “delivered” there, as well. And as I sat on hold, listening to our nation’s postal service’s fine, fine easy listening selection, I realized that the postman does not really come to our door so much as to our mailbox. So I hung up, went out to our mailbox, and lo and behold, there was my package. Hee.

My bad.

So anywhos, me and my tiger striped hair and bubbly toes have all our deliciously horrid chick lit, and are prepared for a week of cowering in a hat and SPF 983 under an umbrella on the beach, enjoying the sun. It’s going to be awesome.

Mwah, dah-lings. I’d send a postcard, but I fully intend on being far too inebriated on umbrella drinks to really do so.

Easy with the Credit Card, Cowgirl

I had a fabulous weekend. Between fine dining, pedicures, and shopping my little consumerist heart nearly burst with glee. I am doing my part to stimulate the economy, oh yes I am.

The Funasaurus and I went and saw Forgetting Sarah Marshall over the weekend. It was good, there was a lot of gratuitous shlong, but it was pretty funny. The plot was trite and predictable, but there was some good physical comedy and it made both of us just that much more anxious to get to somewhere tropical quickly.

Happily, we have only about 61 and a half hours to go… but who’s counting.

Since we went to the theater without having looked up movie times first, we had about an hour to kill before our show. So I took The Funasaurus shopping, which he loved. (read: no he did not.) But I had a gift certificate burning a hole in my purse, and The Funasaurus needed things for the honeymoon. He thinks I have turned this trip into a reason to go on a spending spree, and, o.k., maybe a little, but also I do not think he fully grasps the concept of: we do not live near a beach. Our wardrobes need expansion. Because so help me, I do not think he will be happy wearing his wool pants from work suits to dinner where “resort formal” is required. Pants, in Funasaurus world, are either a) jeans b) the bottom half of work suits c) ratty shorts that one can play grass volleyball in and not care about ensuing stains.

So I took it upon myself to get him new shorts, new polo shirts, (hey, it can be used for the one day a year that he golfs, too!) new swim suit, (he only had one. I know he will thank me for that second pair after a week at the beach) and new shoes. Because patent leather doesn’t cut it in the Caribbean.

Hmmm. Speaking of. Maybe I need new shoes, too. There’s still 61 hours of purchasing time.

Hat Friday!

I did buy two hats on-line, and happily I was only charged once, my credit card still belongs to me, I did not wake up in a tub of ice missing key organs, and my receipt appeared in my e-mail and not posted on my blog for all the world to see, and thus I have come one step closer to not being terrified of on-line shopping. Nay, it was downright fun. This could be the beginning of something beautiful.

Or, you know, financially devastating.

...It sounds less fun that way.

Anywhos, the hats appeared, and while I do not plan on modeling them because I don’t really look good in hats, I made my cats model them, because even though they look less-good they look much funnier in them. Plus, it gave me an excuse to torture them. Please excuse the blurriness, they were supremely uncooperative. Sometimes I wish I had a dog.


White hat, modeled by a Very Sad-Looking Tatum

Brown hat, modeled by Sugar, retreating. Also: she hates you. And by “you” she means “everyone, bitches. But particularly Tatum, who opted to include his ass in this picture.”

But you should not feel sorry for them. No. Because I cater to their almost-every whim. Including Tatum’s propensity for jumping on my back, when I happen to bend over and write something.



He can stay like that for hours.

TGIF, y’all.

Always Be My Brownie

Well, it’s Dress Thursday, and I am in a big ol’ long hippie skirt, but you will just have to take my word for it because there is no photographic evidence. I am having a bad hair day. No pictures. Thus I spake.

Of course, it took me about three hours to actually get dressed this morning, so I was a little slow on the Dress Thursday-ing, because I had every intention to go for a jog, but I stuck my little toe out the door and oh! it was quite too chilly, what with all the FUCKING SNOW on the ground.

So I loitered about in my jogging gear, unsure of how to get my heart rate up in the comfortable warmth of my itty-bitty home. Then I remembered that the other day The Funasaurus randomly came home with a jump rope. Apparently he thought we were in need of another dust collector for our garage.

I meandered out to our garage, and decided to see what I could do. Within the first *WHAP* on the dusty cement, repressed memories of failed middle school double-dutch competitions came flooding back over me, and I tripped on my shoelaces (no shit) and quickly surmised that this was not the sport for me. Though not before a) strangling myself with said rope b) giving myself rug burn with said rope, because it was too long so I had the brilliant idea of wraping it around my wrist once to shorten it, not realizing it’d continue to twist as I swung it in huge circles and c) tripped again.

I have come to terms with the fact that my condition will be less than svelte for the honeymoon. And I’m o.k. with that.

Then I had brownies for breakfast.

I have also come to the realization that the best way to gain weight is to tell yourself you are going to go on a diet. I have never really dieted before (and apparently never will) but yesterday I was feeling not-so-hungry after a decent breakfast, and so I decided I wouldn’t be hungry for the next week or so and refrain from eating fried things and bread and refined sugar so that I could slip into my bathing suit a little easier. That lasted until about lunchtime. With the best of intentions, I went to order a salad. But it was cold, so I ordered a tuna melt. With extra cheese. On the very large cibatta bun. With fries. They were so good.

Then I got home and could not stop craving chocolate, but I had no chocolate, and didn’t feel like going out to get some. (See: FUCKING SNOW above.) So I scrounged around in the cupboards and found brownie mix HALLELUJAH! except I am pretty sure I bought that mix when we lived somewhere else, and it made the move to this house with us… and… well, I think that was, like, five-year-old brownie mix. PSA: brownie mix doesn’t go bad, folks! I bribed my unsuspecting neighbor over, mentioning brownies and American Idol, and hey, they were both good. (What? No, I don’t like American Idol. Yeesh.
…
But if I did, I would totally be crushing on David Cook right now. Also, if I was that girl [which I’m not (*cough*)] I would have downloaded his version of “Always Be My Baby”)

So, surprisingly, there were just a couple brownies left over this morning (I consider that a WEAK performance by us, last night) and so I reminded myself of my resolve to not eat refined sugar, and promptly devoured what was left.

Maybe I will eat better when I get to the all-inclusive resort.

I crack myself up.

Clarification and Variations on Yesterday's Pictures

Dress Thursday is tomorrow! Be ready! I sure am not! Stupid Colorado weather. Yesterday, I went for my jog (ha ha, the old lady who passed me with her walker thinks the term “jog” might be a bit strong) and I was sweating profusely by the time I got back because it was EIGHTY degrees. SO HOT. I was dying, and also loving it, and before collapsing from heat exhaustion, I vowed to break out the t-shirt and shorts for today’s run.

Naturally, it is fucking snowing again.

So anywhos, thank you all for your helpful suggestions for fixing my lint filter. Sadly, it is not my lint filter that is broken. It is still working fine, as far as I know. What’s broken is the hose behind the dryer that is supposed to blow all the excess lint out behind the house. It is not only slashed by kitty claws, but also completely unattached to my dryer, as you can see by figure A:



I was literally up to my elbows in lint to take this picture. It is so gross. Dust busting and vacuuming tonight, wheeee!

The problem is that the dryer is a) really frickin’ heavy b) wedged so tightly in beside the (equally heavy) washer that it is never coming out. What I need is a repairman with exceptionally long arms. So far, DLPanther, Google has been supremely unhelpful as far as that goes.

In happier news, I totally traded in my flowers, and while they are not quite daffodils, they are Very Yellow and, even better, Alive.



(I still love me some commas.)

If anyone is looking for a florist recommendation for some good, affordable table flowers in Denver, let me know. I have a great recommendation.

Dead Flowers and Lint

I skied on Sunday, and I will say the conditions were perfect. I will not say that my 67-year-old mother kicked my ass going down the hill because that would just be embarrassing.

After a glorious (!) day of skiing, I got home and fell asleep for two hours. This, following Saturday, when I went out for cupcakes with two girlfriends and bought a bouquet of daffodils for myself on the way home, which are pretty much my favoritest flower, ever. It was an awesome weekend, despite the fact that the daffodils did not quite… open up like I had hoped.



Sad, sad little repressed daffodils. I’m going to see if I can trade them in.

Meanwhile, one of our ever-ass-ohilic cats has figured out it’s fun to climb behind our washer and dryer and slash our dryer tube with their gnarly little devil-claws, and when that didn’t bring a big of enough of a lint storm for their furry little hatefulness, they managed to pull the tube out completely from the back of our dryer. Thus sending all the lint all over the laundry room and the whole place has become one big lint trap IT’S DISGUSTING.

So I have been hang-drying our clothes for the past week, which is a TOTAL BLAST let me tell you, and also The Funasaurus prefers his towels not-stiff-and-bristly, thanks anyway. But I don’t know who to call. The warranty is just up (naturally). Is there such a thing as a dryer repair man? Do I call Home Depot? Do I call GE, the makers of my dryer? I feel dumb enough I have decided to ignore the problem and just make The Funasaurus suffer through another round of crackly sheets. He would be much obliged if you all have any suggestions.

At least it’s 70 degrees today, and the snow is gone! Hooray!

Royal Punctuation

Let’s talk about what a humongous geek I am. Last night, for fun, I went to… (drumroll) Comma Class.

And it was awesome.

I kind of approached it as an AA-type thing, seeing as how I have a bit of an abuse problem with the literary equivalent of taking a breath. I like breathing. And dramatic pauses.

Words like “appositive” and “restrictive clause” reappeared in my vocabulary. We talked about coordinate adjectives and debated whether the word “massive” was an adjective of evaluation or if it really described size. Because you put a comma to separate adjectives of evaluation, but not adjectives describing shape. (Or color, or age, or size, or material.)

So you could write, “Several little black plastic buttons” but you would have to put a comma in it if you wrote, “Several pretty, expensive, sparkly black buttons.”

Um. I think, anyway. If I remember the lesson correctly. (Did I get it right, all you editors out there? I am struggling with the lack of comma after heavy. It seems like there should be one, but last night’s class has made me Not Sure.)

It was a bit of a lesson in humility. I would love to be an editor, but I realized just how much I need to learn and re-learn. All I know is, commas are WAY sexier than spreadsheets. Suck it, Excel.

There’s just something so lovely about the correctness of it all. There are rules! People don’t always follow them, but there is a right and a wrong way! There is structure, and I find comfort in it. (Despite the fact that I basically live outside of it.) Perfect CAN be attained. (Just not by me.) And apparently my subconscious really got excited about it all, because last night I had a dream where people in Germany were writing everything with “z”s and I was frantically running around, trying to remind everyone that although it sounds like a z, you actually write it with an s. And so I was screaming, “Remember the s’s!”

What makes it so funny is that I don’t even speak German.

Love,
Her Royal Highness, (, ?) ... &*%$! Princess Maybe Grammar Isn’t for Me

Why I'm Totally O.K. with Going Somewhere Warmer

This morning we woke up to this:



And This:



These pictures are dark not because I was up that early, but because IT'S STILL COMING DOWN and my camera kind of freaked out when I tried to focus on the snowflakes because there were SO MANY. And so. You know. I’m kind of OVER the whole snow-thing. What with it being April and all. Except I think now I might go skiing again this weekend, so HEY DENVER FOLKS! Thanks for actually staying off the roads last weekend. That was really awesome. Can I get a repeat?

Having near-blizzard conditions on this gloomy spring day did not deter me from Dress Thursday, though! No no, the revolution must go on! (Though the revolution now includes a long-sleeved t-shirt that was not originally part of the plan.)



I am nowhere near as happy or as high as I look in this picture, but hey, I fake it well. And I am fantasizing about the Caribbean even more than before. Which brings me back to the topic of sunscreen. Because I think I get a slight flush when I even THINK about UV rays. One of my hats has arrived. I don’t look great in it, but I it’s more function over form, at this point. I’ll take pictures when there are two.

Even last weekend when I went skiing, and applied copious amounts of SPF 50+ multiple times AND wore goggles AND wore a hat that came down to said-goggles, AND also a neck warmer that I had pulled up over my nose, I still managed to get my telltale freckling that happens when I do anything except stay inside a shady house with the blinds drawn all day long. My freckles are not… cute. There are no “angel kisses.” No, it’s more like the freckle fairy beat me with his bully club, and there’s a ring around the exterior of my eye that kind of looks like the black eye from a bar fight is finally healing, except, WAIT! If you get a little closer there’s kind of some freckly-splotchyness going on, there.

I’m going to look awesome after a week on the beach. But I don’t care, The Funasaurus is already stuck with me, and I'm determined to get my money's worth in umbrella drinks.

29 and I Feel Fine... But Sugar Does Not

Yesterday was indeed my birthday, although it was kind of inconsequential as far as feeling older goes. Today’s kind of like last week, minus the bitchin’ allergic reaction I seem to be having to my new face lotion. It’s fucking sexy, the miniature hives all over my face.

We actually celebrated with my family last weekend, while my brother and sister-in-law were in town, and went out to a nice restaurant where they did NOT sing (the mark of any quality establishment) and instead stuck a candle in the slice of s’more-y heaven I had for dessert. Somewhere around glass #4 of a very good Rioja, my mother decided it would be a good trip down memory lane to tell The Funasaurus stories about what a pitiful little mess of emo crazy I was in high school. Poor Funasaurus. Sucker.

One story begins, “Cat was having a rough year, emotionally.” OF COURSE I WAS, I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL. “Her father brought me (my mother) a bouquet of carnations for Valentine’s Day, a leftover tradition from his fraternity days. He also brought Cat some. She was so overcome with emotion, she burst into tears all over the flowers. While that was not quite the reaction he was expecting, Dad managed to get it together enough to say, ‘Don’t worry, you leave for college in just a couple months, and though he doesn’t know it, yet, there is a special boy who is also going to go to that school, who is going to appreciate you and love you and marry you.’” Or something like that. Dad was optimistic, as I was busy snotting into the flowers he had just brought me with my blotchy face.

Mom likes that story. I had (perhaps intentionally) forgotten about it.

But much to my surprise, yesterday, I got a delivery. A large bouquet of pink carnations. From The Funasaurus. (Who actually claims to not have remembered the story, and just thought I liked carnations, but I pretend like he didn’t say that because it is more romantic this way.)

Go me, and my hives!

Meanwhile, my cat is broken. She was fine as of last Saturday night when we went to bed. Sunday we woke up to squawking. Much like a duck on helium after smoking a pack of cigarettes.

Sugar seems to have developed quite a case of kitty laryngitis, or something. It sounds horrible! But she’s eating and drinking and chasing her feather toy and hating on Tatum, so everything else is right with the world. I called the vet, and explained the symptoms, and they agreed that as long as she was still eating and drinking, it wasn’t worth bringing her in. “Is there another cat in the house?” she asked.

“Erm. Kinda. Except for the half that’s more goat-like.”

“Do they wrestle?”

“What else would they do?”

“It’s possible he sucker punched her in the throat,” said the vet. (I paraphrase.)

“Ah.” I said. And then looked at ol’ googly eyes, who was all, What? But had a certain smugness about him, I swear. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Meanwhile, we’re on day four of Sugar’s Dying-Pigeon-of-Doom voice, and while it’s kind of funny, it’s also kind of sad. I have been feeding her treats to make her feel better, and now I’m kind of wondering if she’s prolonging it just to get more treats. She’s pretty clever, that one. Unlike Mr. Sucker Punch, who I just found sleeping upside down like a bat. I wonder if I should have told the vet about that one, instead.

The Finer Things... And the Finer Woman

My full-fledged yuppie upbringing has led me down all the road to all sorts of life’s little pleasures. Brie at age four? Bring it on! Chablis at age three? Mais bien sur. Overseas travel at age eight? Be free, little grasshopper, to discover your snooty French side! Skis at age five? Um, technically, yes, but that did not go over so well. Skiing was more of an acquired taste. I have always been a princess. And skiing involves a) muscles, and b) being cold, neither of which has ever been all that appealing to me.

However, my parents were committed yuppies, and with a little swill of whiskey in a flask (for them, not me, though: tangent!: whiskey was not an acquired taste so much as something I loved from the get-go, I think mostly because my grandmother used to feed my delicate toddler self all the maraschino cherries out of her whiskey sours) they would push me off the mountain tra-la! And I would be so horrified that they had dressed me in blue (WHICH IS SO NOT PINK) that I would not realize I was skiing until I was halfway down the mountain, mid-sulk. The indignity.

Thus, my one sport of choice was… nourished? And I became a skier. To the point that I almost get high, now, when I ski. The controlled rush is perfect for my taste for contained adventure. To be moving so fast, in such an organic (and by "organic" I mean "non-motorized", as opposed to "non-fiberglass" and "plastic" and "neon colors") way, yet still to be in control… it fits me. Plus, being surrounded by mountains that take your breath away is a good way to make you all zen and tingly.

Skiing is why I moved to Colorado. College was a means to an end, in some ways.

What I will tell you, though, is that if I had never skied before? And you asked me to ski now? I would laugh at you as I made my way to the bar in my fur-lined boots and waited for your ridiculous ass to get out of the cold and join me for some hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps. Or Baileys. I’m flexible.

Which is why my sister-in-law rocks. Because she had never skied before. And then she met my brother, and he said “marry me,” which is the only logical explanation I can think of for her being so blindly willing to attempt skiing at the ripe age of 20-something. She has now been skiing a handful of times, even though our impatient family was like, “You’re fine, let’s go!” and took her up the mountain with nary an alcoholic beverage in sight, and the girl came back for more.

I know, I don’t believe it, either. But this weekend she and my brother were visiting, and she bought a t-shirt that said Opening Season of the New Part of the Mountain! (ish) And my brother and I, being cracked out on fresh mountain air were all, “Oh, you have to EARN it, you have to SKI the new part to wear the t-shirt.”

And bless her unsuspecting heart, she said, “O.K.”

My mother, was more like, “Erm, do you really think she’s ready for that?” in a I-don’t-want-to-give-my-daughter-in-law-a-reason-to-hate-me way, and we poo-pooed her and cajoled my dear sister-in-law to point her skis off the cliff, and down the icy face we went!

Sis got down the first 50 yards quickly, though more so by leading with her face than her skis, like we had suggested. Still, once the acrobatics ended and the billowing cloud of snow settled, she got up, giggled (!) and kept on going. I am pretty sure I would have killed me, if I were her. But that is why she’s a better woman than I am.

And then we went home and drank wine, and she says she’s coming back next year.

We’ll see what she says when the buzz wears off.

Brain Dump

What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?

This is a really fun game; I totally pilfered it from Slices of Life, who is very cute and makes brooches work, somehow, so I am planning on getting me some to spice up Dress Thursdays. (Eventually.)

Here are my results:

What Cat Means

You are very open. You communicate well, and you connect with other people easily. You are a naturally creative person. Ideas just flow from your mind. A true chameleon, you are many things at different points in your life. You are very adaptable. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. You have the classic "Type A" personality. You are a seeker. You often find yourself restless - and you have a lot of questions about life. You tend to travel often, to fairly random locations. You're most comfortable when you're far away from home. You are quite passionate and easily tempted. Your impulses sometimes get you into trouble.

What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?

Meanwhile, I’m very happy it’s Friday, because I’m sick of working. I spent 40 minutes this morning at the wrong coffee house, waiting for a co-worker-ish person (I say “ish” because we don’t really work together, so much as work for the same company in totally different roles, our paths only cross because of our geographical location and also the fact that she was an assistant to a Very Famous Author which makes me bleed jealousy, but I try not to show it as I constantly invite her to coffee to get the inside scoop on living with a crazy, creative genius…. Or maybe I could just ask The Funasaurus what it’s like. Heh.) What are the odds that there are two DazBog Coffee Houses on 12th Street in Denver? Odds are VERY GOOD, as it turns out.

Opening game day for the Rockies. Whee. More sports.

I bought a new dress for our honeymoon last night on sale for $12, SCORE! You know you are maybe a little lonely when you find yourself trying to make intelligent conversation with the chick in the dressing room at Old Navy, who is so consumed with a chip on her nail that she actually attempts to hang four separate dresses with one hand.

Speaking of dresses, sorry for the lack of picture, yesterday. I swear there was one, (ask Ms. Chipped Nail) but there was a little incident involving some chocolate icing from the last of the army of cupcakes I had left sitting around my house. Though there is a certain amount of pride that goes with knowing I single-handedly took down an army.

Thank goodness those are gone. My skin is starting to rebel.

Looking For: SPF and Juicy Novels, Not in that Order

It’s Dress Thursday! I am wearing my long skirt, although it took me a half a day to get here. (Long story summary: wanted to jog, was a big pansy because it was cold, finally went around lunchtime, then got around to, you know, showering and putting on clean [dress!] clothes.) I don’t have a picture, yet. That would involve waiting for my camera battery to charge, and then going through the process of getting it taken, loaded on to my computer, and then to my blog. It could be hours, people.

The weather’s doing wonky things, with all of its GREY SKIES! SUNSHINE! SNOW! KEEP GUESSING, SUCKA FOOL!-ness, recently. Which I don’t really care about, except for my jogging aspirations: see above, and my skiing aspirations, see: this weekend. Please, everyone else who’s gotten to ski all year long, don’t go this weekend. Let me have a little fun without the four hour commute up I-70. (Anyone else hear the little snort of laughter coming from the universe?)

The Funasaurus is working hard, Sugar is high on feathers, Tatum is chasing air, and I am going stir-crazy. Things are quickly back to normal, after The Funasaurus’ return. Now we are just looking forward to our honeymoon, and in preparation for my blindingly-white skin to meet the Caribbean sun, I purchased not one, but TWO hats on-line, today. One from THIS company, and one from THIS. These are good places to get affordable hats. Also, straw purses, should you be in to such things. I am not.

I also need to look into sunscreen SPF 80-million or so. Any suggestions on good sunscreen? Preferably, the kind in a squirt bottle, because I am four-years-old like that?

And while I’m soliciting suggestions, I also need reading material. I am looking for: Not Sad Things. I like happy endings. I like romance and chick lit, and I have not read either in quite a long time (not counting my tryst with Emily what’s-her-face from two days ago; that was just poor judgment on my part) and am looking for QUALITY along with the cheese and lust, please. I feel like that is a lot to ask for. It shouldn’t be. Get on it, you writers out there. You know who you are.

T.V., Feathers, Muumuus, and Other Fetishes

Due to happy, happy forces outside of my control, the TV ban was lifted yesterday, around 3:00 P.M. when The Funasaurus unexpectedly came home! Work settled in ways they could not have hoped for, and so he got out early, and came straight home to watch a marathon of Entourage. (Does anyone else watch this show? Can you explain to me what’s so great about a group of spoiled, materialistic guys with a lot of money in L.A.? Usually a marathon is enough to suck me in to a show. So far, I don’t really get it.)

I feel whole again, but, of course, my big reading-time and cleaning-time and doing-things-that-are-not-watching-TV-time plans have been squashed. I’m really o.k. with it. And just happy my midnight butt warmer is home.

The cats are happy, too. The Funasaurus knows how to throw the mice the RIGHT way, so Tatum has sworn off of my help altogether, and is back to crying pitifully when The Funasaurus leaves every morning.

Sugar’s story is more interesting. She hasn’t really played with any toys since we got Tatum. We call it the Freshman Syndrome. You know how in college, when you were a senior, and you’d see some freshman all gathered and being stupid and you’d think to yourself, “Dear God, how can one person be such an immature dirty hippie all at once?” and also, “I am better than you.”

Sugar is kind of in that mindset. She used to be silly, and chase toy mice, and roll around on magazines orgasmically (still not sure about that one, the girl loves her perfume samples, I guess.) but as soon as Tatum in all of his googly-eyed splendor showed up, she was so over it. All. Harrumph. And also: sigh. You fucking dirty hippies. And she would sit scornfully in high places, cleaning herself obsessively, as if Tatum’s googly eyes were contagious.

So Tatum took over the faux-mouse realm, chasing them wildly and retrieving them, and decapitating the very same ones that Sugar, only a few months earlier, had whimsically batted around until she accidentally fell off something and then did the quick, sit up, check to see if anyone saw, and saunter away casually as though that had been the plan the whole time. What mouse?

She also had a feather on a string that she loved very much, but Tatum ate it the first night he came home, I think. We haven’t seen it since, in any case.

So I got her another one, recently, in a random act of selflessness in PetSmart.

And suddenly, Sugar cannot help herself! She loves the feather! She cannot bear to see it move, and, forgetting her last shreds of dignity, will launch herself tiger-butt-wiggle-like at it, frantically trying to hunt it down as I evilly swing it in the same loop over and over, laughing manically. Our relationship may have suffered a bit, but the comedic gold that is Sugar’s own brand of googly-eyed-ness is worth it. I have run her into more walls, recently….

And that’s my life, these days. Well, that, and an army of mini cupcakes that I made for a baby shower last weekend. I tried to push them on as many unsuspecting guests as possible, but I was still left with about 692. Not wanting to waste food, I have been diligently consuming about two dozen a day. I am planning on wearing a muumuu on the beach for our honeymoon. Bikinis are so last year, anyway.