Tried-a-minic...

Wow. Last week's cold has started turning into this week's bronchitis, which I really don't have time for, so I jotted off to the grocery store last night for cough drops and cough syrup. I have a really tweaky system that either super-amps medications or has reverse reactions to them - Nyquil, for instance, makes me very hyper - so I mostly have to take pediatric cold stuff. Triaminic is an established standby in my medicine cabinet, but I'd never tried the eight hour cough forumla. The fact that it's berry-flavored sold it and I happily took my dose when I got home.

And I stopped coughing! Yay! But I was also high as a freaking kite! I. Am. Not. Shitting. You. Didge looked at me about 45 minutes after I'd taken it and asked how I felt, I told him, "VERY relaxed. My whole body is relaxed." And I stayed that way. Anything I happened across on the web was more supremely interesting than the most supremely interesting thing has ever been. My entire being was engrossed in whatever my eyes landed on. Didge's hair has never seemed so bright. "Quarantine", what we decided on for last night's movie, was the *best thing ever*. And during the movie? I decided I had to have a snack.

Yes, darlings, let's talk chocolate cupcakes. I sort of allowed myself to float into the kitchen and treated myself to a cupcake. Never have I so acutely sensed the smell of chocolate. And eating it? I didn't eat that thing. I experienced it. And, I swear, I *danced* over how good it was. That chocolate cupcake was the most amazing thing I've ever consumed. After running in place in delight for a couple of seconds, I returned to my chair and started living "Quarantine" again.

I lived the movie to the extent of jumping and exclaiming when the main character would scream. Thank goodness there were only about twenty minutes left by this point, otherwise I might have hurt myself. And the end...actually, I won't tell you what I did over the end, but I made Didge play it twice and lived it both times. Telling you might act as a spoiler, and I hate those. Sleep came shortly thereafter, and was very, very black.

This morning, I'm fine. No cough, no after-effects of the medicine, and I'm actually well-rested after not having come awake coughing like an old man for the first time since Monday. But to be honest, I'm kind of scared to take that stuff again.

Censor and ship and lawn and darts...

You're kidding, right, Twitter? Seriously? Alright, darlings, get this:

I sent a tweet that said an old friend would be coming over this weekend for martinis and horror flicks, and that he was threatening to bring lawn darts. Clicked send in Hoot Suite.

Where did it go?

Hm. Tried again. It still didn't show up.

So, I wrote "lawn darts" as "lawn and darts", and up it went. But, you know, I've been a little unwell lately, so I got snarky. I'm prone to the snark, I'll admit, so I jotted off something about "censoring PITA's". I didn't even write out "pain in the ass" (or asses), I just said "censoring PITA's". It did not make it past whatever power.

So, evidently, one can't say anything about censorship and lawn darts on Twitter? Is this some bizarre glitch? I really hope so. You can swear, but you can't say "lawn dart" or "censoring"? Or is it "PITA" that's not allowed? Heaven forbid someone spell out "PC" phonetically. Or "too PC" - that would probably have alarm bells sounding for days. (Think about it. It smacks too much of sandbox humor for me to actually write it out.)

My head. It hurts.

Memo...

Dear #(%*(&$ cats,

That place with the curtain at the end of the small room that contains the thing you two like to fight behind is called a "shower". And those nice, soft piles of fabrics that I put in there in a large basket so they would not add to the hazard created by the two of you in the hallway? Those are called "laundry". "Laundry" is a very different thing than the box of what is, essentially, scented gravel set up especially for the two of you to use in two very particular ways. Neither of said ways should have happened in "laundry". Both did.

You might be wondering how we know it was both of you. Foster, I saw you walking out of the shower, and commented on how cute that was. And, Foot Foot, hopping on the "laundry", after I had moved it out into the hall to dump it into the washing machine, as soon as I walked away from it and assuming THAT POSITION was a dead giveaway. Plus, there's just no way one cat can do that much of what Foot Foot assumed the position to do.

But for now, it is semi-okay. I have other spare comforters to replace the two that are now in a tightly-sealed bag awaiting trash pickup on Thursday. And we are back to the habit of keeping that bathroom door closed so the two of you cannot get back into the shower and do the same on the floor in yet another round of competing for space. Kindly refrain from indulging in either activity anywhere outside your designated box of scented gravel, aka "litter box".

Thank you,

Merciless Goddess of the Water Bottle

And one...and two...and hold it!

No house flip for us today! We've been visited by the Domestic Wisdom Fairy, who told us that we really should remove these two hulking pieces of furniture we've been meaning to remove before we haul heavy things up and down stairs. Life will, she said, be so much easier. And she was right. She was followed by the Cat Wisdom Fairy.

The Cat Wisdom Fairy didn't say anything, she just inspired Foot Foot to stalk Foster as Foster tried to check out the new litter box locale. (It's in the upstairs bathroom.) She had Foster cornered behind the toilet. What fun.

So, now what? Foster's litter box is in what is going to become our bedroom, and neither of us want *that* in the bedroom. Foot Foot thinks the entire upstairs is hers, which is wrong, but introducing her to the idea that this is wrong by rearranging the litter box setup evidently isn't the way we need to go. Our respective offices are going to occupy the upstairs bedrooms - are we to have to have two litter boxes up there? This is getting freaking out of control. We've just decided on a plan to have one cat's litter box in the upstairs bath, and the other cat's in Didge's office/man cave. But that puts them both upstairs. Which could potentially mean more fights.

Which means our entire fucking existence now pretty much revolves around two cats, one of whom is determined to drive the other out while driving us out of our minds - which is so completely asinine as to defy any amount of disbelief. Welcome to my realization that I am officially over it. Something's got to give.

Sometimes I surprise myself...

At 9am, I decided that the best therapy for a week of cold medicine and yuckiness would be fresh air and exercise. While I'm not 100% certain I was right, the front yard and flowerbed are all nice and clean, and there are three bags of yard trash awaiting disposal. Perhaps the feeling of accomplishment will carry me through cleaning the back yard, which promises to visually inspire a complete physical and emotional meltdown if I don't do something soon.

Poor Didge. The decision that spurred my realization was one that involved a little fit of impatience combined with a need for a plan. Once I've stopped sneezing from the pollen I kicked up raking leaves and pulling weeds, I'm going to draft a three-day (well, two and a half) plan to whip the bejeezus out of our abode. Monday morning, I want to wake up in greatly improved circumstances.

See, Didge and I have this problem. I decide to do a thing, he decides that we should do it another way, a mess results, and we both give up. So then I run around, clean the kitchen and bathrooms, tidy up the bedroom, and that's it. We have mad vintage stuff to display and insanely cool overall plans, but can't bust any of it out - *yet*. Tuesday's when I'd like to start busting it all out.

Like I said, poor, poor Didge. He's suffering from the same cold I've had, and is still snoozing away, looking as innocent as he's able. (Even asleep, he looks like he's plotting.) What a nice wake-up surprise I have in store for him.

Almost forgot!

Didgeridoo Boy (also known as Trey Simmons) was interviewed for this article in the Augusta Chronicle, which deals with a little incident involving Motley Crue (specifically, drummer Tommy Lee) that took place 20 years ago.

Potholding on for dear life...

If you're familiar with cats, you're familiar with the more-regal-than-thou routine. In the mind of a cat, he or she never messes up and is incapable of doing so. There is no such thing as indignity or embarrassment, which makes it all the more amusing when their reality shifts in a matter of hilarious seconds.

Meet Foster:



Gorgeous cat - such unusual markings on her face. She tries so hard to be serious and aloof, and can perform seemingly magical acts such as flying across the living room in a perfect Sphinx position after being startled out of a chair. Foster embodies the more-regal-than-thou front I described, deeming everyone in the house that's become her temple her subjects. Even inanimate objects are her subjects. The world worships and revolves around Her Fosterness.

Well, except for potholders. Sometimes they rebel, like they did this morning. Foster likes to eat on high, she's all about a good view, so her dishes are on top of the refrigerator. Her dining area is accessed by a quick jump to the counter, followed by a graceful leap to her food. Well, usually graceful. Sometimes she misses. And sometimes we've forgotten to move something out of her way - - like potholders.

Given how perfectly she landed on it, I think she might have done this intentionally to drum up sympathy for more food and maybe a bit of spam musubi later (she heard me mention it), but plant all four paws squarely upon it she did. And down the counter it went. This surprised her, but she tried to hold it together; for a second it looked as though she was surfing. But then she decided to aim for the top of the refrigerator *from the potholder*, which slid in the opposite direction. She walked off it on her hind legs, planted herself into the side of the fridge, and then swooped down to the side and ran down the hall. And although she came out and had a large breakfast, after which she pulled the sweet routine until I said "spam musubi" again, she's gone back into hiding. The vibrations from her complete humiliation are carrying through the house like the worst kind of reverb.

She'll be back out around lunch, and will expect all of this to be forgotten.

Such sore excitement...

I bought my first guitar yesterday:

And, yes, I am actually going to learn how to play it - never mind what Didgeridoo Boy thinks. He thinks I will give up on it and he will wind up with it, however, this only motivates me to bite my lip through the pain of developing callouses and try harder. Heavens, he made me mad yesterday - "Honestly, sweetie, I think I'm going to inherit it because I don't think you'll stick with it - and when I do, I'm going to change all the knobs out to neon green...and...." He was grinning from ear to ear the entire time, so I think, perhaps, he was trying to motivate me in his own special way. Yes, it backfired. Sometimes I lack a sense of humor, and will snap like a provoked terrier. The situation deteriorated into him telling me I could find someone else to teach me how to play it, and me turning the stove off in the middle of cooking dinner and traipsing out to sit someplace away from him. Five minutes later it was over, though, and he wound up showing me a few things that resulted in lovely, sore fingertips this morning.

Perhaps he'd like to be awakened by the sound of me practicing scales. He did say I could use his amp...

Bad, then worse, then standoff...then bad...

Holy hell, we're at a complete loss as to what to do about these cats. They had their worst fight to date yesterday completely out of the blue, Foster (the older one who came later) suffered a cut paw and camped out on top of the refrigerator for a few hours. Foot Foot (aka Satanico - because she is the Satan Calico) jotted all about the house, simultaneously taunting, stalking, and celebrating. And it's not over. The sound of Foot Foot dashing all around the house woke me this morning - she had Foster corralled on the couch by doing so, and was really enjoying herself.

Right now, Foster's back on top of the refrigerator, and I can hear Foot Foot's bell jingling merrily in another part of the house. Didge and I kind of have to stay on high alert with these two, but we're both a tad more focused now - already, he's had to chase Foot Foot away from the base of the fridge. Twice. (Second time this morning just happened.)

(Make that three times. Yes, the third time just happened. Didge and Totsi the ever-patrolling dog just had to send her down the hall and back up the stairs.)

In two days, Foster will have been with us for three months. Something tells me this isn't going to get any better than it is right now - frankly, the only time we get a break is when Foot Foot is asleep. As much as I keep telling myself I should no longer be surprised, Foot Foot's tenacity and capacity for sheer defiance is becoming alarming. (She does not always trot off when told to leave Foster alone. Half the time, she sits and glares.)

So, good morning! I was going to write about other things, but the kitty cat battles shoved everything else out of the writing portion of my brain. Instead of brainstorming for blog entries, I'm going to do a little more digging into what might help with situations like ours. It's either solve the problem, or secure a Xanax prescription.

Drat the little pollen troll...and cat issues.

Drat him, and drat him hard. As soon as I can breathe, hear, and see (my eyes are a bit swollen) I am going to head out of doors to beat him with the largest stick I can find. Evil little bastard. This particularly keen allergy attack, ironically enough, began last night in the middle of a giggle fit over our cats, our dog, Didgeridoo Boy, and a chair. Why don't we focus on that for a while?

I take it I've discussed the fact that we have two cats who hate each other, right? And I don't mean the occasional growl and hiss, I mean full-on fights on a daily basis. We've had Foot Foot since November, and she seemed the perfect little sweet, round calico. On Christmas Day, we brought Didge's cat, Foster, to live with us. He'd told me Foster was something of a badass, so when he tried to introduce them I thought the resulting growls were coming from Foster. No.

Those were from Foot Foot. And for three months straight, she's been hell bent for Foster leather. Until last night, their most spectacular encounter took place on top of the refrigerator. Well, unless you count the time they got into it behind the couch, which resulted in Foster flying off like the fastest bat out of the hottest part of hell, tripping me up, and nearly helping me shatter my tailbone. And there was that yowling tumbleweed episode down the hall....anyway, you get my drift. These cats want to kill each other, and are trying to give Didge, Totsi, and me nervous breakdowns in the process of trying.

Last night, Didge was sitting at "command central", his computer desk in the living room (everything goes through his computer on the wall o' entertainment). Foot Foot had been away all day - hiding somewhere in retreat from having had an attack thwarted, but since it was almost time for dinner, had mysteriously reappeared. She was settled nicely into Didge's lap, and seemed happy to be there. Foster was in the papasan chair, which was tilted like a bowl to give her a feeling of security. I walked into the kitchen to begin prepping dinner, and Foster decided to do what she does and dash in to steal food. We had a little argument involving a lot of scowling and a water bottle, but she finally decided to slink off into the living room and pout. Just one thing...

...when she pouts, she likes to go to Didge's lap. But Foot Foot was there, right? And enter Totsi, the ever-patrolling dog, who suddenly realized she needed to get to work and stick close to Didge to make sure nothing went kittybats. I heard Didge say, "Foster? Foster? No, ma'am!", followed by, "Help me." I looked into the living room to find him holding Foot Foot in his lap with one hand and Foster down on the floor with his other, all the while telling Totsi to back up a little. I asked what I should do. He told me he didn't know, but that things could be about to get bad. And it was at that moment that Foot Foot got a very sadistic-yet-pleased expression on her face and dug her claws into his thigh.

Well, something had to be done, right? So Didge let go of Foster, grabbed Foot Foot with both hands, and stood up. She launched as Didge sat back down, and he then tried to pin Foster to the floor over the other side of his chair. Airborne cat landed right in front of the dog, and they danced a bit. The dog ran backwards about three feet, and Foot Foot dashed underneath Didge's chair. Luckily, he had the good sense to get his hand off Foster and out of the way.

An epic hissy-pop battle ensued right underneath Didge, who had the essence of an "OH SHIT" expression on his face. And then they moved under the desk, right at Didge's feet - he moved, and quickly, while swearing. I ran back and forth in the kitchen while the dog did the same in the living room. No clue what we were doing - perhaps the excitement got to us. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over - Foster was dashing down the hall, and Foot Foot ran to hide upstairs.

This morning, Foot Foot's on seriously zippy patrol. She's been running....and running....and running. There have already been three major stare downs between her and Foster, and the ever-patrolling Totsi has had her hemmed in behind the entertainment center a few times. It's on. The shit will surely hit the fan before sunset. And Didge and I are both heavily fogged with allergies and not-so-able to contend with this effectively. And I have no freakin' clue what to say about any of it beyond that - I keep listening for the ominous jingle of kitty cat collar bells, wondering when the hell Satan's own calico is going to pounce.

So that's our morning. All in all, this a great way to get back into posting in a particular blog, don't you think?

Little Miss Forgetful...

Not that I've been keeping up with this blog anyway...

I'm in the middle of at least a one-week break from blogging while Didge and I get our heads around a slew of business-related stuff. To make matters even more fun and exciting, I decided to revamp this blog a bit (working on that), very likely launch a third, and actually pursue the whole blogging thing instead of having them be mere half-assed hobby-based replacements for phone calls with friends and family. That led me to trying to figure out how to link everything together social media-wise, and so forth, and so on...

And now you know where we are, and I feel responsible and caught up again. We'll be back sometime next week - hopefully with updated photo and video repositories and a shiny new graphic at the top.

Watching Larry King Live...

Seeing Corey Feldman talking about the death of his best friend stung a bit. He was very impressive, and the whole thing was bittersweet. It was a perfect example of what best friends should do for each other.



I've been trying to figure out an entry pertaining to Corey Haim all day long beyond my standard RIP gig. Damn, this is sad. It just sucks. Didge shook me awake this morning with "Oh, my GOD - Corey Haim just died!", and I jumped up asking, "WHAT??" We were part of the, ahem, target demographic for movies like "Lucas" and "The Lost Boys", and while it's hard to explain why that makes the death of someone so incredibly distant such a jolt, when people who become part of the fabric of such a good, colorful, fun time in your life pass away, it's a jolt.

So rest peacefully, Corey. And thank you for helping make *that time* what it was to us.

figuring it out

(Dang! Three weeks!)

Actually, that should read figured it out: Chaos follows Didgeridoo Boy. He can't help it, it's just part of who he is. My life is a cartoon, and I've always been okay with that, but bringing his chaotic element into the mix...? Yeah. Ohhh, yeah. And whoa, Nelly. Traditionally, this is the part of the marriage where we begin to settle into what would be normal for us, right?

For us, there is very little what is normally considered "normal". And that's fine. I'm completely okay with the fact that I have bloody well given up trying to figure out how to have a little bit of "normal" in our life. What we are establishing is what is normal for us. We cannot be 'burbanites, even though we live in the 'burbs, not that we want to be, anyway. (Ye gods, the idea of Didge in pleated trousers and a golf shirt - please, please save me from this horrific vision. And take the one of me driving an SUV with it.)

(And take the one where we start shopping at Banana Republic, too. Please. The fact that he drags me to WalMart is bad enough.)

But, like I said, it's taken a little while for this to sink in. It actually came over me in a wave this morning, and was something of a relief - it means I've finally got a lifestyle with someone else (key thing, there - there have been some dilly-ass-doozies in my past) that I don't feel as if I'm forcing myself into in any way, shape, or form. And while there are times I feel as though I've adopted a seven year old, I'm sure he feels the same way at times, too. He completely understands when I dash off towards some kawaii something or another, just as I totally get it when he power-moseys towards a new video game or Star Wars figure.

In short, we're rolling with it. Marriage thus far has been good, and it became a whole lot better with this morning's realization. (And, yes, I am writing about it all again.)