Totsi the Dog has a few thoughts on heroics...

Hello. I am Totsi, resident canine of Casa Didgeridoo, and all around seer of most things good. Today, I would like to talk to you about being a hero.

Mommy and I took a nice walk this morning at one of our favorite parks. There are trails and grassy areas, patches of mud to roll around in, bushes to get into, and even a drinking fountain especially for those of us who walk this earth on four legs. It is truly a wonderful place with so many things to see and sniff, and a world of options for getting into. Sometimes you can even see turtles. But something not wonderful about this place is humans who do not do something that they should for their dogs.

Humans, please clean up after your dogs. We can't help that we have to do that particular thing when we have to do it, and the way we have to do it means that we don't have the option to dispose of it as handily as you do when you do it. The grass does not flush. So it would behoove you to avail yourself of some bags and tie them to our leashes when you take us out to big public places where you know darned good and well we are most likely to do it. It is not difficult to pick what I am talking about up. Yes, you might have to carry it a way to find a place to throw it away, but remember - you did decide to make a dog part of your family. We come with a particular set of needs, and I am afraid this is one of them.

Have you ever stepped in that thing that we do? Did you like it? Did you find the smell at all pleasing? You probably didn't, and if you did, I am sorry but I think something might just be a little bit wrong with you. Do you know what might have prevented you finding yourself dealing with that? A good and responsible human equipped with a supply of sturdy bags, ready and waiting should their good, noble, and loving dog's need arise.

Think of it that way for a minute and ponder what this means. It means that every time you pick up that thing that we do with one of those bags and take it to the proper place to dispose of it, you are a hero. Our humans are our heroes anyway, but to clean up that thing that we do that we cannot help that we do is really something else. And not only are you then even more of a hero to your good, noble, and loving dog, you are a hero to all those people who didn't have to wind up stepping in what we do.

You would like to be a hero, wouldn't you? Doesn't that sound nice?

Enjoy your day, and dance some.

Totsi Tatertot Didgeridoo

Intruments of torture...

I have decided that Didgeridoo Boy uses energy drinks as weapons. They used to be an occasional thing - - Mt. Dew is a good source of caffeine, and he drank that for his daily boost for quite a while, but then he decided he needed more. Why? Well, maybe he likes the rush. After much careful consideration I've come to think that he drinks them so he finagle me into submission with greater efficiency and enjoy the process that much more.

Exaggeration? No. Let me give you a ten step rundown of what can happen with just one can of Monster Energy Drink when he and I are on an errands run:

1. We go to the "sto" for his "crunk juice".

2. He purchases and consumes said "crunk juice".

3. His driving goes a little more swoopy.

4. The Didgerifurbee awakes. He will spout nonsense, just one "word" to start with. Sometimes, he will speak English, and just yell, "FART!"

5. The nonsense continues, along with lines of questioning pertaining to why I like or do not like: Gas, gas, gas, gas, or gas. What do I think of his gas? Why do I not like his gas? How can I not find it funny?

6. It will be time for movie chat. For example, why do I like or dislike "Coming to America"? What is my favorite scene in "Jaws III"? Oh, I don't like "Jaws III"? Why not? What do I think of his taste in movies?

7. As I am trying to generate answers that will make the incessant line of questioning stop, I realize we are at Walmart. Odd, I don't remember that we were going to do that.

8. I become glad I am in a store as spacious as WalMart, as I failed to have my morning cardio and have to chase Didge all over the place. I begin trying to bribe him with things to get him to stop zipping around, check out, and leave.

9. I realize we are in the car on the way home. Exhausted by this point, I no longer have the energy to debate concerning dinner, and after I have cooked dinner I damned well don't have the energy to load the dishwasher - which would make noises that disturb Didge, anyway.

10. Didgeridoo Boy makes a merry mess with his bribery snacks, and happily watches his programming choices while I sit in the stupor brought on by half sleep, no longer giving a flying you-know-what about anything.

Nutshell version: Didge has had his way all day, and it all can be traced to the antics produced by one energy drink.

Jupiter Kneivel...

Since Jupiter Jones, our precious, darling little kitten, came to live with us, he's figured his way into many things (fireplaces included) resulting in our having to construct a wide variety of barricades. The only one of those barricades that is still working is the one over the fireplace - there's duct tape involved there, so its failure was never a consideration. Duct tape has the magic.

Anyway, all the other barricades have failed, and miserably. If Jupiter can't get over it, he will move it, if he can't reach it, he will climb. If he can't climb, he will perform a series of leaps and climbs, going from one piece of furniture to the next until the desired spot is, hooray, accessed. He can zip through doors that have only been open for a split second, and will scoot to the most inaccessible place possible (for humans) once he's into the room he is absolutely, positively not to be in. Ever.

We went through a few incarnations of box barricades at the base of the stairs. As you might have guessed, he finally got over those. So Didgeridoo Boy had the idea to move them to the top of the stairs - on the very top, they would present a higher barricade, he reasoned, but realized it was a temporary fix. This worked for a couple of weeks, but then Jupiter figured out how to get between them. So the kitten could get upstairs - not such a bad thing, as he usually waited to go up there until one of us happened up that way, and would follow us back down without any kind of fuss.

Last night, he decided to go up there and stay. Didge decided this did not need to happen, and got him. He went back up. Didge went to get him. He scampered up and ran lively circles in the hall, Didge chased him down and brought his happy kitty butt right back down to the living room. And again. And repeat, and again. So Didge came up with a new barricade solution - he repositioned the boxes, and opened the top flaps of one. I was impressed. We stood at the bottom of the stairs to watch the kitten's reaction.

Young Jupiter was positively outraged. He ran to the top of the stairs, sat, and looked down at us in a way that clearly indicated he would like us to do something horribly vulgar to ourselves on the way to someplace rather hot. He sniffed at the boxes, went down a couple of steps, and sat again. Finally, he came back down; Didge picked him up and carried him to the living room, and I went to bed.

A short while later, I heard a box tumble down the stairs and Didge running down the hall to see what had happened. I went out of the bedroom to find Didge at the bottom of the stairs, giggling, as a very bewildered orange and white kitten came creeping out of the box. He had evidently tried to jump on top of the one that had its flaps up, wound up going down into it, and then took the ride of his life to the bottom of the stairs.

It's really all downhill from here, isn't it? Don't answer that. Just let me blissfully labor under the delusion that the kitten has finally learned his lesson and will wreak no more havoc.

Rebound dreams...

Getting back into the swing of exercising as much as I used to has been tough. For a good while, it was a matter of habit to run on my rebounder and have a satisfyingly challenging yoga practice almost daily - but then I twisted my ankle, managed to hurt my shoulder and hip, got caught up in creating a life and home with Didgeridoo Boy, and BOOM! It was a little over a year later and my jeans weren't behaving themselves. I'd make stabs at getting back into my old habits, but would let them go again. Finally, I started taking things in small segments - one habit at a time, and that seemed to do the trick, albeit with one glaring exception:

Running on the rebounder. And, mind you, I enjoy running on it. There is some part of me that's all about, "Whee! I'm jumping on a trampoline IN MY HOUSE!", when I'm on it. But getting back to it wouldn't stick - - until I decided to try running on it later in the evening, around 9.00pm. I used to think this would keep me awake, but have found that it actually knocks me into a wonderfully deep sleep. But that's not the motivating factor, darlings. Within that sleep, I have some of the most insane, vivid dreams I've had in my entire life. They're brilliant, surreal, conceptual things with fabulous color saturation that have me waking up marveling at what my brain was able to generate. I have always had a very healthy dream life, and my dreams have always been vivid - but these are absolutely un-freakin'-real. So, yes, I run on my rebounder to get "the dreams". Let's see if I can convey some of the highlights effectively.

There was a riverboat dream. In this one, I was on a riverboat sometime in the nineteenth century, but everything was sort of idealized, as it might have been in a 1950's musical. A narrator was escorting me around the boat, explaining what I was seeing - I think. He was speaking jibberish. But then, the boat lurched, and came to a stop. The narrator began to speak English. The mood of the dream shifted - the lighting went dark, and we were focused on the bank of the river. A Confederate soldier holding a rifle appeared over the tree line, hovering, as a chanting announcement was broadcast in a very hoarse, gravelly voice that all the ladies with babies were to put their babies in baskets and put them in the leaves on the riverbank. I then saw silhouettes of said ladies, from their backs, drifting out to (I assume) do so - never saw the babies, but one of the ladies removed what seemed to be a very heavy cape, and dropped it. A sense of desperation settled in, and I knew the ladies would be getting back on the boat to die, as it was about to be involved in some kind of disaster. I was trying to convey this to the narrator, who was being very patient, and then I noticed something. "Wait a minute....", I said. "This can't be during the Civil War. Their skirts are wrong. Those hoops are not typical of an 1860's silhouette, they're decidedly 1840's." And I woke up.

The very next night, I dreamed I was friends with (now, get this) Perez Hilton's butler. I took the butler some cupcakes, and he suggested a game of hide and seek. We played hide and seek all over this pink and gold mansion - there were really no other colors in the place other than pink and gold. Finally, the butler sat down on a bed, laughing. I sat down, too, recovering from having been running all over the place looking for him so I could have a cupcake. I didn't know where the cupcakes were, as I'd lost my bearings and couldn't find the kitchen, where I thought we had left them. Madonna appeared on the bed, sitting as if she'd always been there. The butler asked, "What the hell are you doing here?" She said, "Looking." At that moment, Perez Hilton peeked around the door, laughed the most maniacal laugh I have ever heard, and said, "Oh, I am going to write ALL about this!" End of dream.

And then came last night, which I'm having a great deal of difficulty putting together. I was outside, and liking it. But the mood wasn't right, and I kept trying to pose in different ways to change that. I stood, trying to appear "blank" and normal. I sat, trying to seem like I was someone who had never missed a Coachella but would be damned if I dared admit I'd set foot on the grounds. I decided I didn't like my shoes. But then I realized the real problem was music, not only did I need music, it needed to be just right. And music came on - but I hated the song. So I kept shouting, "NEXT!", waiting for the just the right song to be played to help create whatever mood it was I was trying to put together. I never got it. I woke up wondering when the music would ever be right. I was also able to change the temperature, wind, and cloud cover - but never managed to get those just so, either.

Neat, huh? I'm not even going to begin trying to interpret them. Sure, I could have a field day doing so, but I'm more interested in figuring out what it is in having a run on my rebounder at night that could be causing this. Maybe. Right now, it's enough to have the lure of them kicking my butt to to a nightly workout - I really do tell myself that I won't have "the dreams" if I don't do the run. And as an added bonus, when I told Didge about them, he actually hopped on the rebounder for a short run - he's been saying for a while that he needs to start getting more exercise. I haven't even thought about any of the typical workout results - slimming back down, toning back up, and jeans that behave themselves again. Sure, those things are great, but they're not nearly as interesting what happens after I go to sleep.

Never doubt the power of dreams.

More coffee...

So, at first it took me a while to remember that it's Friday. I have mad brain scramble from a week of debate with Didgeridoo Boy over whether or not what we currently use as the dining room is to become the home theater (you bet your sweet bippy it is) while strategically avoiding being pulled into yet another round of the come-here-and-grab-this-speaker-wire-through-the-back-of-the-entertainment-wall game. We had a spirited discussion as to whether or not my old Macbook could be sold (no) rather than going with my plan to replace its hard drive and use it in what is, for the love of all that is holy, going to become my "swanky yoga boudoir office princess tower room". And then, Didge decided that it was time to start rounding up old books to take to the secondhand bookstore, since we're just about to start building accent furniture from them, while I was over at my parents' house and unable to control what was being gathered.

I came home, had an avocado for lunch (I've never professed normality), and helped Didge gather a few more books to replace the ones of mine that had accidentally made it into his pile. The satisfaction that arose from getting rid of one cookbook in particular, that only called up memories of the time I dared try make my own seitan and wound up with a brain-like thing I could bounce around the kitchen, was immense. I was basking in the glow of that satisfaction when Didge announced he needed help with the kitten, since he was trying to leave. Once I'd successfully corralled Jupiter Jones, opened the front door for Didge, helped Didge get his laundry basket of books in the car, almost slammed the car door on his foot, and remembered to let Jupiter Jones out of the bathroom, I recalled something wonderful. I had a packet of coconut M&M's, and they were just begging to be savored with an iced latte.

So I did just that. Screw the fact that I have said, "No more afternoon coffee. I don't need this much caffeine." I needed a boost. I swear I have been forgetting stuff since I reduced my coffee intake - afternoon coffee is as vital to me as oxygen and Flintstones vitamins with iron. And I was right. I did need a boost, particularly in the form of a nice hit of chilled espresso-ey goodness, because it was as soon as I sat the glass down after finishing it that I realized something:

I forgot to post an entry today.

I think I'm going to have another iced coffee, just to make sure I didn't forget anything else. And since I can't remember what song I was going to post when I started writing this about twenty minutes ago - here. There's no correlation, it's just one of my favorites. Enjoy your weekend!

First grade...

I will never deny that I am every bit as in touch with my inner child as Didgeridoo Boy. That mine is a few years older is beside the point - I relate. I do. Really. Life as a stereotypical grown up is a frightening prospect, full of planned fun (say what?) and talk of financial advisors. So, yes, I eschew that nonsense wholeheartedly, and with the same delight I take in setting fire to things like golf shirts, pleated trousers, and mom jeans. You get the drift, right?

But, as I said, my inner child is the older of our two. For example, while I am down with the fact that the man likes his KoolAid, I am the one who has to make it every single time. Didge can't make KoolAid - just can't. It's one of the damndest things ever, but he honestly and truly *cannot* mix up a pitcher of KoolAid. I have structured his household duties around basic things like toting, emptying, and rolling. (Running the vacuum was recently nixed from his list.) I don't want him to break anything or hurt himself, and he seems quite happy within the established parameters.

The disparity in the ages of our inner children sometimes results in arguments, however. And over the course of those arguments, I've noticed something: As the disagreement progresses, I'll get older, and he'll get younger. I can, in just about two minutes, jot from having the sort of go-round I might have had in the sandbox over who's shovel is the red one, to being the frazzled teacher having to intervene and sort the whole mess out. (I have to make the age transition quickly, before one of us bops the other with the bucket that goes with the shovel in question, or chucks sand in the other one's eyes.) Right when we get to the point at which I am about to put him in time out, he will usually cease insistence in favor of helplessness, with the level of helplessness being determined by how angry he has realized I am. (If it's been an especially dramatic showdown, he will take a nap. I really wish I was exaggerating.)

So, yesterday, after going around and around with me about a couple of things for a couple of days, and watching "Clerks" no less than seven times in succession, Didge accompanied me to the grocery store. On the way there, we were in inner child spat mode, and once in the door, I found it horribly necessary to become the authoritative adult. In a masterful display, he managed to both channel his inner first grader while spookily emulating Jay right by the bagged baby spinach. Let's leave the particulars of what he did alone. He was acutely cooperative the rest of the time we were there, although he insisted on walking *right* beside me - in a way that would have made it very easy for him to trip me - while spouting "Clerks" quotes.

As we were leaving, we had a testy little exchange in the parking lot over how my psychological well being takes a serious hit when his obsessions with particular movies result in his embodying a character for any length of time. Didge recognized this as the "time out" moment - pushing me any further would have had him in his chair without a juice box, so to speak. We got in the car and began the drive home. He started fumbling with trying to open his can of Monster Energy Drink (I bribe him with these - not always successfully), and gave a couple of frustrated little sigh/grunts. I could tell it was coming, that moment of helplessness meant to make himself seem so cute that I couldn't possibly be mad anymore, but I had no idea he would go as freaking low as he wound up going. Handing the can over to me, he said, in the most plaintive voice he has ever mustered, and with precisely this expression on his face:

"Miss Simmons, I need some help with my milk."

Yes, I opened it for him.

Well, shoot...

I had an entry written for today, I swear. However, when I pulled up the edit screen for it, nothing was there. I thought a little pre-prep would be a good thing - Totsi the Dog had her teeth cleaned yesterday, and is still grumpling and snoozing a bit from the anesthesia wearing off, so I was going to put a major dent in clearing out the storage room while she slept. (This is actually more about getting myself to leave her alone - - I tend to over-check on her.)

But, like I said, there was no entry. So I decided to do a brief intro with a repost of something from a couple of years ago, an account of taking Totsi to the vet to have her teeth cleaned and what happened after we got home - - but I can't find any of my pre-Didgeridoo Boy entries. So that got scrapped. And then it occurred do me that I could tell you in one sentence what happened that day: She came home, drank a substantial amount of water, trotted out into the back yard to relieve herself, got stung by a yellow jacket, had an allergic reaction that made her face start to swell, and got rushed back out to the vet in five o'clock traffic for a steroid injection.

In a weird way, today is like that.

Sunday night in ten easy steps...

Step One:

Notice the dog is sitting, staring at you, chortling and hoo'ing. When she puts her paw on your leg (which she will), move on.

Step Two:

Ask, "Do you need to go outside?" The dog will run to the back door. Go to the next step.

Step Three:

Follow the dog, and open the door for her.

Step Four:

Note how dark it is. Your precious dog might not like the dark, so turn on the outside light for her. Wouldn't want her to get scared on her nightly deck inspection rounds, would we? Time for....

Step Five:

Remark to the dog how large a moth that is that's just flown up to inspect the light over the door. Be thankful that it isn't one of those giant green ones, and voice that as well. Begin to realize that in a moment, you will have to open the door to let the dog back in. How on earth will you avoid being attacked by that moth? Start thinking about that now, but stop before moving to the next step.

Step Six:

Note that the dog is standing at the door, watching you watch the moth in a way that clearly indicates she doubts your intelligence at not being able to recognize that it's just a simple moth. Ask her if she would like to come back inside, and look back up as you open the screen for her. Brace yourself for Step Seven.

Step Seven:

You will notice that the moth is flying into your face. Scream. Tell all and sundry about this moth flying into your face, but do not use words. Just scream. Note the echo!

Step Eight:

You can shut the door. The moth will be inside. Stop screaming, and perform a spirited jig directly above where the moth will land, which will probably be about two inches away from your left big toe. Allow it to register that the neighbor's dog is barking. Yes, you made that happen.

Step Nine:

Realize that your neighbor has come out onto his deck, and is asking his dog what the matter could be while telling him to hush. Also realize that people tend to run outside to determine what could be going on when they hear a woman scream at 11.00pm.

Step Ten:

Tell your husband to put the moth outside. Hand him a broom, and go to bed.

An act of daring...

I've mentioned in a few entries that Foot Foot, our older cat, isn't taking too kindly to our kitten, Jupiter Jones. We were certain we would have to protect him from her, given her tendency to aggressive behavior toward anything else with four legs, but nothing could have prepared us for the fact that she is full-on, stops-out terrified of him. Yes, she will growl and hiss as if prepping for homicidal acts, but only just before (or in tandem with) hauling butt so fast she's a blur. We didn't know Foot Foot could move so fast, never mind catch air going around the turn to zip up the stairs, yet she does. And "catching air" doesn't just mean she leaves the floor by a few inches; I'm talking about a height of at least a foot or more.

But our astonishment over her air-catching ability is nothing compared to the shock she delivered Friday evening. Didgeridoo Boy and I are still a mite freaked out - we'll talk about the event, laugh some, and then go back to staring and shaking our heads. For a keenly alarming second, we thought Foot Foot was a goner - and a flying goner, at that.

Shortly after Jupiter's arrival, Foot Foot decided to take her own apartment in the dining room, which is shut off from the rest of the house by a French door. She stayed (dramatically prone) in a makeshift cave under the buffet for a while, then moved to glaring through the windows of the door while still refusing to set foot in the rest of the house. And then one day, she decided that it was time to come back in. Jupiter bounced over to her, and she hissed and dashed up the stairs. There was a barricade at the base of the stairs that he hadn't learned to clear yet, so she had another haven.

But then Jupiter learned how to get over the barricade. He now chases her up the stairs on a daily basis, or tries to - his ascent is still unwieldy enough to mean Didge can usually catch him before he manages to create further havoc. But sometimes Didge misses, and Jupiter is able to trail Foot Foot all the way up, resulting in much hissing, growling, and other feline lamentations. This, as you can probably already imagine, is what led to Friday evening's event. Foot Foot jogged into the living room, Jupiter gave chase, and they were both sailing around the corner at the base of the stairs before we could even consider reacting.

Didge made a mad dash in that direction while I went for the Evil Kitty spray bottle, intending to follow. After about half a second of thundering scampers, Foot Foot and Jupiter sounded as though they were setting up for a devil of a showdown in the upstairs hallway, and failed to pipe down when Didge got to the top of the stairs, stomping and clapping his hands. That wasn't a good sign, so I decided to stay downstairs for the time being, and backed into the living room to call upstairs to ask if everything was alright. I could see Didge over the edge of the balcony - - he seemed to be trying to decide which cat to pick up. Finally, he chose Foot Foot, and started trying to shoo the kitten back over to the stairs. Foot Foot, still growling, didn't seem to care for being held.

I think she thought the kitten was going to make a jump for her, or that she was angered past the point of generating anything resembling a rational thought. Whatever the case, she was very well determined to get away from Didge, and made claw-flinging Jello of herself trying to get down, all the while remaining bunched up in an angry ball. From my vantage point down below in the living room, it was highly amusing - up until the point she somehow ejected herself from Didge's hands. He tried to catch her, but to no avail - Foot Foot's front paws caught the rail of the balcony, and she launched out and over the living room, dropping about twelve feet down to the floor, holding her legs out like a flying squirrel. While we were mid-exclamation (I won't tell you what word we shouted in unison), she landed with a substantial thud, got up as if not one thing in the world was amiss, and ran straight to her food dish.

And then Foot Foot ate. That's all. She ate. She was (and is) fine. We ran to check on her, and she looked at us like we were crazy. Then she went back to eating.

I'm going to shake my head for a few minutes now, if you don't mind.

And today...

As you saw yesterday, our most recent stab at housework didn't go down in an organized manner. Today, I'm going to try my damndest to have that happen. Right now, though, I am hiding in the bedroom, using the excuse of needing to put up a blog entry as my means of procrastination. And it's not so much housework and catching up on the laundry I'm scared of as it is the fact that Didgeridoo Boy is very, very calm again.

He just opened the bedroom door, actually. He barked/howled softly at the ceiling, posturing in a way similar to dancing Snoopy, stopped, performed a dance of many subtle hip gyrations, and then said, "Gotta doody." He giggled, chatted for a moment, and went back to the living room. But that's all. And I'm honestly wondering just what he's eating that has increased his tryptophan intake or if he's found some quiet, deeply personal practice that has soothed him down and away from the usual mania. Outside those two possibilities, I'm drawing a blank.

If he's doing this to make me paranoid, it's working. My poor soul.

Alright. I'm off to it.

Housework...

So, like, yeah.

Didgeridoo Boy vacuumed the living room last night. I heard strange sounds, went to see what he was doing, and saw him doing this. No clue as to why he did this again (yes - again), as last time he said it felt like he'd sucked the skin off his face.

He seems to be scheming...

So - this could be two things, both hinging upon the same concept. One, he's mad about me having taken the cap gun and is trying to comfort himself with thoughts of something with much greater "pop" potential. Two, he's getting competitive, and trying to top my twisted thought about the Jackass Neighbors with ideas pertaining to something with much greater "pop" potential.

Or it might be both.

(And I meant what I said about popcorn.)

Just before juice time...

It was bound to happen. Yesterday, I had to confiscate Didgeridoo Boy's cap gun. I'm tired of the damned thing, and can't get my head around how a six foot, three inch man with a proclivity to giggle so hard he snorts and not gifted with the the first whit of the blessing of grace can silently lower himself to the floor and fire a tiny toy pistol under the crack of a closed door. But that is what he did. Again.

So I gave chase. Down the hall and through the kitchen he went, giggling, running on tiptoe like a merry, stretched-out toddler jacked up on Skittles. "Give me the thing.", I demanded. He giggled and pranced all the more. Into the living room, around the couch, around the couch, another time around the couch, and back around the couch again we went. He had stopped giggling. "Stop! Stop it!", he said. "Stop chasing me!" We stood still, and I demanded the cap gun. "NUH-UH!", cried Didge, and took off again. I trailed him some more, and he claimed he no longer had the cap gun. Noticing it wasn't in his hand, I told him to tell me where he put it. He wouldn't. So I chased him around the kitchen and living room for that information.

When we took another break, he sat down on the couch while I stood across the room from him, glaring, arms folded like I thought I was a bouncer. (Have I mentioned that my hair was wet and up in a towel durning all of this? I should, because it was.) "I really don't have it anymore!", he said, holding up empty hands to show me. And so I asked, "You like energy drinks and cigarettes, don't you?"

He reached into his back pocket and presented me with the cap gun.

Popping up...

I know you're likely sick of how much I carry on about them, but the Jackass Neighbors are still our neighbors and aren't showing any more signs of clearing out. And Jackass Neighbor Man is still fond of setting his car alarm late at night and early in the morning, making his car horn tootoot in a way I gather is most satisfying to him. Certainly he derives some sense of self-fulfillment from that, as much as he does it.

He's evidently picked up a new means at attempting satisfaction. Saturday morning, in the early hours of daylight, he was (I think) trying to bounce a wrench around his driveway. Either he didn't have much success or he found something he really enjoyed, because he did it, and did it, and did it again. And then what did he do? Set the car alarm a few times. Perhaps he is just of a nervous temperament, and feels compelled to set the thing over and over. Will it work? Will it turn back off? Will it work? Will it turn back off? Better check again. Wait a minute....did it work?

Since I was awake, I got up and had some coffee. Didgeridoo Boy and I decided to go do a little shopping - I needed a few things for the round of yard work I decided to take on (don't ask), and every now and again we git bitten by the dollar store bug. I asked if he'd heard any of the apparent wrench bouncing and car horn tootooting, and he just *stared* at me. The subject was changed. At our last stop, Walmart, I spotted something:

"A fun trick NOISE MAKER"

And I was very, very surprised at a thought completely unrelated to yard work that popped into my head at the sight of those things. I stared at the display for a couple of minutes before Didge asked what I was looking at. I pointed. He said, "Oh, cool! Are we going to get some of those?" As I was taking that snapshot, I said, "No. And let's go over here and I'll tell you what just came to me. We're NOT getting those things." Didge really wanted them, I could tell. "But why not?", he asked. And I said, "Well, I just had a thought. The Jackass Neighbors have a door mat. That's all I'm saying." And away I walked.

Didge fully understood what I did not voice, and indicated he thought that would be most amusing while dropping the subject every bit as hard as I did. We didn't bring it up again, and I pushed the thought out into the ether where it belongs, and where it will very well stay for eternity. We will never speak of the thought again. It is gone, that thought.

These people are driving me absolutely, positively, batscat crazy.

The stick with the feathers...

Yes, I have decamped from Yfrog back to Twitvid, if only because I like that the name contains the word "twit". Underrated word, that one. I use it a lot, and will never reveal the list of souls I've labeled as such in moments when I need a hit of chocolate. Anway - -

Happy Friday! Have some Jupiter Jones with a side of Totsi the Dog:

On our frighteningly calm errands run Wednesday, we decided young Jupiter might like a stick with feathers, jinglies, and squiggly things on it - and we were right. He loves it. So much, in fact, that he finds the state of it not being waved around over his head intolerable. When he feels it is time to have his stick with feathers, jinglies, and squiggly things waved around over his head, it is damned well time for that to happen, and that not happening results in a wandering, vociferous fit about the living room and up and down the hall, followed by several instances of his amazingly popular "flying velcro" routine. You will wave the stick with feathers, jinglies, and squiggly things over Jupiter's head, or you will likely suffer Bactine-worthy consequences. It's entertaining to watch him go after it, though, and a really fantastic feature is its ability to tucker him slap out. (He's entering *that phase*.)

So enjoy your weekend, and if you have a kitten, by all means go out and buy a stick with feathers, jinglies, and squiggly things for him or her.

Fright...

Yesterday, I told you all about Didgeridoo Boy's morning post-bad-stuff-on-GoKittenGo's-Facebook-wall mania. He indulged that urge thoroughly and soundly, and with heretofore unheard of gusto. After his frenzy, we went out to run errands, and I said that I thought those were sure to provide "an interesting ride". A friend agreed - Didge seemed to be gearing up for something epic.

But here's something really interesting: Nothing happened. Now, granted, he did managed to do something keenly foul in the toy department at Walmart, however, there were no antics that could even be considered mid-range. No bizarre power strolling, no speaking Didgerifurbee, no outbursts of, "LOO LOO LOO LOO LOOOOO!", nothing. Not one blasted thing. He was polite and cooperative.

And that was freakin' scary. Enjoyable, but scary. I found myself afraid of when he might up and explode into a highly creative fit of his own brand of performance art in the middle of the housewares, concerned that he was gathering his energy for something really, truly out there by Didge standards. (I think we're all aware of how distressing a few minutes that could be.) But it never happened. Certainly, I thought, he'll go up and at 'em when we get home - - but that didn't happen, either.

He calmly watched a few movies, and then told me that I didn't have to fix dinner because he didn't feel very well, and turned in for an early night. The thought of this makes me frown. Why does it make me frown?

Anyway, it was very nice. He was very calm, and subsequently, I was very calm. But I'll be straight up: I am good and scared of what might be coming up. I know this man.

Revenge...

Didgeridoo Boy was rather unhappy with my bringing up having been slaughtered by the doody angels.

He has a thing about spamming up my Facebook wall with music he knows I dislike intensely. Sometimes, he'll even leave voicemails for me with these songs playing in the background - as he did while I was at the Masters.

This morning, he put that very song on my Facebook wall again, along with a couple of others:

Note, however, his reaction to having me treat him to some of his less-than-favorites.

Enjoy your Wednesday. I have errands to run with Didge in tow. Given how our day has started, this could be an interesting ride.

Rides are always better with some music, don't you think?

Mystery solved...

Let's discuss our kitten, Jupiter Jones. I've covered how cute he is, how we've had to find interesting ways to kitten-proof areas of Casa Didgeridoo, and his relationship with Totsi the Dog. What I have not discussed is the strange behavior pattern he's developed over the past week or so, one that usually has me fleeing to the bedroom to get away from him at night, but marveling over how incredibly chilled out the little guy can be during the day. You're familiar with the way older cats will just lay in a spot and stare at you in a way that's a perfect combination of not caring what you're doing, but really wishing you would stop doing what that is so a napping marathon can continue? He started doing that overnight. He also started sitting very still looking very calm and pleased.

We were a little confused. "Wow! He's really mellowed out a lot!", exclaimed Didgeridoo Boy. "But he goes batsh_t crazy at night. He jumped on my back while I was sitting at the bar working on a model, and he keeps trying to climb my leg." So, yes, he began exhibiting highly polarized behavior patterns, one might say. Every night from my hiding place in the bedroom, I'd hear Didge hurling vehement exclamations and howling in pain.

Around the same time all of this started, Jupiter had taken to climbing the piano. Foot Foot's little bag of catnip was hidden behind the music rack, and he managed to bat that out and knock it to the floor - along with everything else I'd stashed back there. I saw it on the living room floor from the balcony, and decided to put it back when I went back downstairs - only it wasn't there when I went back. I assumed Didge had found it and re-stashed it. Am I talking to you?

A couple of nights ago, Didge's explosive lamentations began early, and seemed a little more earnest than those of previous nights. I had dashed off to the bedroom the first time the kitten flew through the air over my head and stuck himself to the couch, thinking I knew what was coming, but it was far, far worse. Didge even ran into the bedroom to join me in hiding. "Get back out there! He's worse than ever. Seriously. He's crazy!". I declined the invitation and reminded Didge of the water bottle and little glass jar of dried beans with the metal lid, both effective kitten deterrents. "He tries to drink the water when I spray him!", Didge said, but he went back. Not two seconds later, I heard, "HAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! OWWWWWW!".

And then it went quiet. A few minutes later, I heard him calling the kitten, walking around, and then running down the hall. He dashed into the bedroom again and said, "I know what's wrong with the cat." I asked which cat. "The kitten! I know why he's getting so crazy!" I asked if it was something bad. "He got ahold of Foot Foot's catnip from the piano and has it hidden behind those books beside it, and is going back there and eating it! He chewed a hole in the bag and is eating it!" We stared at each other for a weighted bit before I said, "Oh, holy damn."

Didge got the bag of 'nip from the kitten's hiding spot, and securely stashed it in a place where he won't get to it - we hope. He's returned to normal; calm is back to somewhat playful, and playful is no longer outright dangerous. The scratches all over Didge's arms will heal, and I'm able to spend less time hiding. Please notice that I am refraining from saying anything about having nipped the problem in the bud, because that would be too obvious a play on certain things. I'm so proud of myself for not having said that.

Dewed in...

Something in me is wired to cook heavily on Sundays. Try as I might, I can't completely undo the urge to embark upon some description of kitchen production on that day - something that will have me planning out processes and stages, usually stuck (but happily) working for a few hours. Yesterday, I decided to make lasagna. So I jotted off to the grocery store to gather lasagna supplies along with the few things I forgot to grab while I was there Friday afternoon. Among those things I forgot was a two-liter bottle of Mt. Dew for Didgeridoo Boy.

How in absolute hell I managed to crack a hole in that bottle of Mt. Dew getting it into the car I do not know. I didn't notice at first. Drove to the gas station, fueled up the car, took the longer, more pleasant drive back to the house enjoying having command of the car stereo. When I was almost home, I caught a whiff of something citrusy, but thought it was my perfume. Pulled into the driveway, and noticed the plants in the front flowerbeds and on the stoop needed water. Took care of that, and took my time doing so. Having just power walked around Publix, I was rather enjoying moving slowly. After I watered the plants, I put my purse and keys in the foyer, and meandered back out to the car. Upon opening the door, I was struck by the heavenly aroma of a loaf of bread I'd just picked up from the bakery. My, it was nice, and I marveled at what a warm car could do for a loaf of bread. I took that in for a few moments before deciding to unload the car. As I started to do that, it dawned on me that I might want to get the heavy bags out of the way first. I reached for the bag containing the two-liter of Mt. Dew and a bottle of apple juice, which I congratulated myself for remembering. Finally, I could make the iced herbal tea from my Barefoot Contessa cookbook. I took another whiff of the bread aroma, and picked up the bag.

There was fluid in the bottom of it, and when I put my head over it to look in, I detected the slightest hissing noise. Felt something, too, that I couldn't figure out. Pulled away from the bag for a second, then went back. There it was again. Hissing, and a feather-light sensation right in the middle of my forehead. Oh, yes, it was Mt. Dew. I shouted something not fit for children to hear, grabbed the bag - cradling the bottom so it would not burst, and ran into the house.

That was not a good idea, but at the time I wasn't thinking very clearly. I should have done a lot of things other than run through the house to the kitchen with a bag full of Mt. Dew and a spewing bottle of the same. Put the bag on the counter, creating a little Mt. Dew waterfall onto the floor, and "located" a pitcher. It was right in front of me, but in my sugary drink-shocked hysteria I didn't "see" it. Poured the remaining 2/3 of the bottle of Mt. Dew into the pitcher, and secured the lid. Remembered right then what carbonation can do, and opened a small ventilation space. (I wish I hadn't done that. Seeing the lid fly off that pitcher would have made my night.)

While I was cooking, I was also trying to un-sticky the kitchen floor. Every time I thought I had it done, it would dry right back to being sticky. It is still sticky, after no less than seventy three attempts to get it all up. Every time the Jupiter Kitten walks across it, he does the little prancy paw-shaking walk, and Totsi the Dog looks downright confused. In my cleaning attempts, I managed to spread it around - so about half the kitchen floor is annoyingly clingy. Today's domestic project is deglazing the kitchen floor.

I should probably get back to that before Didgeridoo Boy starts experimenting with all the various noises he could make by walking across it with different things on his feet, like foil wrap or plastic grocery bags. Hadn't thought of that possibility until just now, and am seeing the potential for high domestic disaster in it. Enjoy your day - I'm off to the kitchen.

A little irony...

Little ironies make my world go 'round.

I have discovered an internet radio station that plays nothing but Mozart, and was enjoying it immensely when Didgeridoo Boy came into the room. It's always possible to tell when he's agitated; as much as Didge tries to hide it, the signs start - one foot will begin to jiggle, he'll begin glancing around and grinning a little bit, and then his eyebrows will begin to elevate (usually the right one goes first). If he's walking around, one of his shoulders will go up higher than the other. So, judging from the rate that his right eyebrow was going up in conjunction with the rate of how his left foot was jiggling as he sat on the end of the bed, I could tell something was amiss. I thought he just needed a little caffeine.

No. "TURN THAT SH_T OFF!" Out of nowhere, Didge began to throw a hissy fit. "SERIOUSLY!" I didn't. I simply said I'd been listening to such music my whole life, and that I was so delighted to have found this particular station. He bounced a little. "TURN IT OFF! GAAAH! I FEEL LIKE I'M IN A SNOOTY CLOTHING STORE!" I let it play for a few more seconds before turning it off, even though I pretended I was getting to it immediately. Didgerihissies (Ding! New word of the day!) can prove entertaining if not allowed to go on for too long.

He began to walk out of the room. As he was closing the door, he said, "Alright. NOW you can turn it back on. I HATE that sh_t."

And why is this an example of one of my life's little ironies? I have three words for you:

1. FLY

2. DOODY

3. ANGELS

That's right - fly, doody, and angels. It's what I came up with after I was (ahem - big hint next) SLAUGHTERED by repetitious plays of a particular song. The trauma is still with me, therefore I will not write it out plainly. Just know that I've since told everyone I was (ahem) slaughtered by a flock of flying doody angels.

Please tell me you see the irony as well. If not, just humor me and say you do.

And have a little Mozart while you're enjoying your weekend. (Yes, there are supposed to be four links - I couldn't find all four movements of this piece in one go on YouTube. But I rather like this "Mozart bomb" effect. I feel avenged.)

I'm not the only one, right?

In the interest of keeping things balanced...

Sometimes, Totsi the Dog prefers to take her dinner in bed. When it is time for her to eat, she will hop on the bed and stare in a way that indicates she is asking for something.

And I oblige her. Then she's given a pillow to go with her blanket, and allowed to take up as much space as she wants for her customary post-dinner nap. Don't think about asking her to move, as I will bite you.

Stands...

You've heard me mention Didgeridoo Boy's crap stands, right? He calls them his office furniture, however, I prefer to cut to the quick of the matter and call them precisely what they are:

Crap stands. But my insistence as to what they should be called isn't borne of wanting to criticize Didge. I've actually become interested in these things as a manifestation of one of the many facets of his personality. Didgeridoo Boy has crap stands fine tuned into his own, distinctive almost-art form. Look closely at that snapshot, under the back pack. That's a pair of hiking boots. Without them, the back pack would slide off onto the floor. The thinking that must be at work behind one of Didge's crap stands is extraordinary, as evidenced by such focus upon alignment and fine tuning. Take this miniature version, for example:

This is what I call a "mini crap". Often, Didge will take a smaller object, place it upon a table or counter, and make of it another crap stand. In this instance, we have a plastic storage box containing some of his model paints. His Marlboros are placed just so, right at the edge above his wallet. It's as though one is a marker for the other, in a place made somehow more official by the presence of the mini crap.

I'm still trying to figure out what's developing with the one I call "Mothercrap":

If you look, you can see the alignment taking shape with dark-colored objects - the Halo box is to the right, with some stereo components and a VCR to the left, and then the vintage Atari controllers to the right on the next shelf up. In the center of the very top shelf is a stack of records. The things off to the sides of these dark-colored gravity-bearing items are what he reaches for frequently, so the same system of marking a place can be seen as with the mini crap. I'm sure my understanding of this one will develop as the piece itself progresses, provided I don't win the battle to send Mothercrap to the scary cave of a room under the house prior to its completion.

Finding a fruitful hobby one enjoys is so important, yes?