The Kitten who Stole Christmas

So, back in early August one of our cats went to the great litter box in the sky.

Rest in peace, Stripes.

And because I'm stupid, I thought it would be a good idea to replace her with a kitten.

 

 Oh hi!  I'm here to ruin your lives!

This is Bea.  Which is short for Beatrice.  Which is short for "No! Beatrice, OFF you !@##$% CAT!"

She's soft, sweet, and snuggly.  And also the reason why some people think black cats are the embodiment of evil.  Because SHE IS.

When she's sleeping, life can carry on as normal, but when she's awake, we're all held hostage in our own home.  We can't leave anything out.  I have to allot double the time to do things like sweep the floor or wipe the counters.  Because clearly I'm doing those things for her amusement.

Amelia now has to keep all of her stuffed animals inside her toy box rather than on her bed because Bea doesn't like competition--not even the inanimate kind.  She would drag toys twice her size down the stairs and bury them in the litter box.

She has eaten and pooped out enough Legos to build a small replica of Manhattan.

In the three months we've had her, she has destroyed every piece of furniture in our family room.  Every single one.

 

 Did I do that?

And now?  Now it's the day after Thanksgiving.  The day I look forward to all year because it's the Day of  Christmas Decorations.  Christmas is my thing.  I go all out.  Three trees.  An elaborate Christmas village.  It's the only holiday I decorate for, and I make it count.

But I've spent all week with a growing pit in my stomach.  Every time that kitten drags something across the house or pulls things down off tables and shelves, my hopes for a Christmas wonderland are dashed. 

And today I had to accept it. There can be no Christmas Wonderland with Bea. There can be no tree filled with ornaments collected all over the world, representing people and memories spanning more than thirty years of my life.  There can be no little ice skaters spinning on the rink in a quaint miniature village.  There can be no heirloom ceramic tree with its sparkling plastic lights. 

This Christmas there will be one tree, tucked tightly into a corner, with only ornaments that can be destroyed or buried in the littler box.

 Because this year Satan Claws is coming to town.

I never saw THAT at Seaworld.

Marianne:  YouTube green porn.

Brandi:  I'm both horrified and highly amused.  PENETRATE ME!  (Also?  I kind of want to be Isabella Rossellini when I grow up.)

Marianne:  Did you watch the dolphins? I've only seen two of them.  My daughter made me watch them.

Brandi: I watched praying mantis and bed bugs. Then my kid came in and I had to stop.

Marianne: Dolphins are...wow!

Brandi:  Yeeaahhh.  I just snuck into my garage to watch Isabella Rossellini narate dolphin porn.  This is what my life has come to.

[For the record, most of my most scarring and/or amusing experiences have started with Marianne telling me to look something up.  Yet I keep doing it.  Also, I don't know if this is safe for kids or not.I'm leaning toward not. On one hand, it's totally factual, informational, educational, uses the scientific terms for everything, and is visually very child friendly.  On the other hand, you may not want want to have to explain dolphin masturbation or blow hole sex to your kids.  Use your best judgment.]

So, You Finally Have Hair on Your Junk: A Guide for Teens and Parents

So, you finally have hair on your junk. Congratulations!  Now that you've finally reached the Hair Down There stage of puberty, you may have some questions and concerns.  This pamphlet aims to address your questions and help you move forward through adolescence with confidence and ease.

Why do I have Hair Down There anyway?

Anthropologists believe that we humans developed our bushy, wiry, pubic, armpit, and (for males and a few very unlucky females) chest hair to act as a sort of brightly flashing sign, blinking out the message "I have reached maturity!  Let the mating begin!"  In addition to being a visual sign of reproductive maturity, your special hair also acts as an odor trap.  A virtual hormonal stink bomb.  Before the days of Justin Bieber perfume, humans attracted mates via the irresistible aroma of crotch and pit stink.  Ah, the good old days.


So...What do I do with it now that I have it?

Right now your special hair is all very new (and probably very sparse).  There's probably not a lot that you need to do with it.  You just keep doing what you're doing:  Admiring it in the mirror and thinking, "That's right, bitches.  I'm officially knee deep in puberty.  Take out the garbage?  You take out the garbage.  I have pubic hair now. You can't tell me what to do." In a year or two your private area will probably start to look a reject from The Muppets.  When that happens, you'll probably want to start doing a little care and maintenance. 

Care and maintenance?  What do you mean?

Just like the hair on your head, the hair on your junk occasionally needs some grooming to be at its best.  Chances are your parents were raised in the 1970's.  They're part of the final generation of au naturale personal grooming.  In other words, they're probably not going to be of much help to you in this area unless they happen to spend a lot of time on the internet reading smut.  You're quite literally going to have to take matters into your own hands.  Invest in a good razor, some small grooming scissors, and spend some quality time with Google. 

Are there any rules of pubic hair etiquette I should keep in mind?

I'm so glad you asked!  Yes there are.   First, if you're going to wear a swimsuit, be sure to follow the grooming tips listed in the previous section.  You don't want to look like you're smuggling a hedgehog in your Speedo.  That just makes everyone uncomfortable.  Second, always be actively aware of stray hairs that have gone rogue.  No one wants to find a pubic hair on the soap, not even one of their own.  And when your mother cleans your bathroom, she does not want to be confronted with hard evidence of your hormonal maturity on the floor and the toilet seat and stuck to the bottom of her sock. 

Anything else?

Just relax and enjoy this period of your adolescence.  It's a magical time.  Remember that your junk hair will be with you for the rest of your life, like a close friend, or the twin you absorbed in utero that's now just a small lump of undeveloped teeth and hair on your back. If you take care of it, it will always take care of you.

We aren't supposed to talk about the bloody mole, but there's a bloody mole winking me in the face. I want to c-u-u-t it off, ch-o-o-p it off, and make guacamole.

(1000 points if you can name that movie.)

So, internets, some things happened while I was on my blogging hiatus. For one thing, we got a new kitten who I'm pretty sure is one of Satan's minions, if not Satan himself.  But that's a post for another day.  Another thing that happened is that I finally saw a dermatologist who thinks that my face moles are totally removable if done by a good plastic surgeon.

This is a big deal for me.

Meet Bertha, Beulah, and Brunhilda. 

(Tangent Side note: Why is it that what I see in the mirror isn't anything like what I see in pictures of myself?  Is it like hearing a recording of your own voice?  When I look in the mirror I'm pretty sure I'm about 15 years younger, had several more hours of sleep, have an actual top lip, and pregnancy did not do such terrible things to my nose.)

I despise these moles.  I've had them for at least 20 years, if not longer.  And they've gotten larger with age.  Whenever I see a dermatologist (which is fairly often because of the Not-a-Tumor), I ask about getting them removed.  And every single time I get told the same thing.  "Well, I could shave them off, but that type of mole tends to grow back darker and larger than before." And then they refer me to the one between my boobs that I had removed that did, in fact, grow back darker (although smaller and flatter.)

Recently I saw a new dermatologist, so I asked again.  He looked and poked and prodded and looked at the one between my boobs for comparison and then looked and poked and prodded some more. 

Then he said the words that made me want to sing with joy.  "I don't think I can remove them with very good results, but I think if you see a plastic surgeon, they can be removed with minimal scarring and regrowth."

Two days later I saw a plastic surgeon and he confirmed what the dermatologist said.  And internets, TODAY IS THE DAY.  In three hours these suckers will be GONE. 

I'm a little nervous.  I mean, I'm having three holes cut into my face. One wrong move and moles could be the least of my worries.  But it's a pretty straight forward procedure, so I'm trying to be calm. 

I'm also trying to imagine a life without giant face moles and I can't.  I mean, what is it like to not have little kids ask you what those things on your face are every time you go out in public?

I'll keep you posted, internets, and when the incisions heal you know I'll post after pictures. 

Hmmm...now I'm wondering if I should ask to keep them in a jar? 

Long time, no blog.

So, umm, hi there.

I know.  I know it's been months and months.  I don't even know if there are any of you still out there who'll read this.

I wish I had some grand, important reason for not writing (I got a book deal and I've been writing that!  I took a 'Round-the-World cruise! I got a boob job and it was just too painful to reach the keyboard!), but the truth is that I just didn't want to.

I'm not sure that I really want to now.  But I want to want to.  I miss it.  Mostly.

And I don't think it's the writing part that I miss.  I think it's the YOU part. So I hope there are still some of YOU out there.

I'm...well, I'm lonely. Really lonely. And I felt less lonely when I wrote here nearly every day. I don't even know most of the people who would read and comment or send me e-mails, but that didn't matter.  I was among people every time I hit publish.

I kind of want that again.

Now, a little business.

There is no winner of the Yarn Vagina Picture Contest.  Well, there was, sort of, but it was none of you.

I tried to donate the $77 I'd promised, but Fisher House wouldn't accept a donation that small. (WTF, Fisher House?  Money is money.)  So, I went to the local Fisher House to see if there were any wish list items I could purchase for them instead.  They needed a Pack-N-Play, so that's what I bought. All thanks to you, internets.  They also needed some help with some yard work, so I helped with that for an hour one afternoon.  I was talking to one of the volunteer directors as we weeded together, and I started to tell her about how I had been trying to raise money through ad revenue by giving away a knitted cowl. (I try not to say things like knitted vagina to elderly ladies I've just met.  I'm classy like that.)  Before I could get any further, she said, "Oh!  I just love those!  Do you know someone who could make one for me?"  And the winner of the lovely blue yarn vagina was decided then and there.  I brought it to her the next day.  She loved it.  And I spent the rest of the day feeling guilty for sending this sweet lady off into the world looking like tired, old labia. But she was a happy tired, old labia.

Also, I know I promised you a modesty rant.  Luckily, some A TON OF other bloggers had been thinking the same thing.  There's nothing I could say that they haven't already covered--so much more eloquently than I could have.  So, enjoy: 
Sue's Epic Modesty Rant
Immodest Angels
How the Modesty Doctrine Hurts Men Too
Modest is Goddess
Fresh Meat
She's a Little Girl, for Crying Out Loud!

It's Alive!

Just a quick note to say that I am, in fact, still alive.  I know the four of you out there still checking this blog will be relieved.

Medically, it's been a rough summer.  Iron infusions and blood transfusions. A broken foot. A barbecued uterus.  Three teeth pulled...I've spent A LOT of the past couple of months laying on my bed watching House Hunters International on my phone.

In a few days I take off for a two week road trip to Maine, where I'll be trapped on a small island that can only be accessed by boat with FIFTEEN of my closest family members. And that's after three days on the road with my kids.  If I never blog again, you can safely assume I resorted to homicide and am hiding out somewhere.  Somewhere very, very quiet. Where there are no children.

Before I go I'll be posting the handful of yarn vagina contest submissions (I haven't forgotten!).

And when I get back, expect a rant of epic proportions. It's been brewing for months. (Spoiler alert: It involves bare shoulders.)

He said he loved me but he lied.

This e-mail was caught in my spam filter today.  Normally I just delete them, but the subject intrigued me enough to open it:

"DID YOU GIVE FUND TRANSFER AUTHORISATION TO MR.MICHAEL BOLTON?‏"

I don't think so, but who knows.  I've heard he can mesmerize the ladies with his ponytail.  It's entirely possible that I authorized it. In fact, it's as possible as receiving a typo-riddled e-mail from the Federal Reserve regarding an inheritance that Michael Bolton (and two of his buddies, apparently--I'm going with his hair dresser and Kenny G) is trying to withdraw with my forged consent.

Office of the Governor.
Federal  Reserve Bank
20th Street and Constitution Avenue,
NW Washington, DC  20551
Our ref:  FRB/Ohg/Oxd1/2012
Your ref:.........................
Payment: file: FRB/BX5/12.
 
Attn: Beneficiary,
 
Payment notification of your funds.
 
I am Mr Michael Morgan, the secretary to Mr.Williams Dudley;

one of the Directors of the Federal Reserve Bank  (FRB), 

the (parent bank of all commercial banks) here in United states.
 
I was instructed to initiate contact with you by my boss the Director,

Foreign Contol Unit of the Federal Reserve Bank  (FRB) on
an urgent issue, kindly note that your funds were re-called and re-deposited into 

the "federal suspense account" of the FRB last week, because you did not forward 

your information as instructed in the mail we send to you last 2 weeks.
 
My boss the Director of the Federal Reserve Bank  (FRB), was visited in his office 

by three gentlemen today, really these men were unexpected by him because their 

visit was impromptu. He ask them why they came to see him in person and they said 

that they came to collect the inheritance/contract funds bill  which rightfully 

belongs to you as shown in your file with us, on your behalf and by your 

authorization.
 
Note that they actually tendered some vital documents which proved that you 

actually sent them for the collection of these funds. The list of the documents 

which was tendered to the bank today are:
 
1. Letter of administration.
2. High court injunction.
3. Order to release.
 
Due to the nature of his job, he cannot afford to make any mistake in releasing 

these funds to anyone except you who is the recognized true beneficiary to these 

funds.
 
My boss asked the men to come back tomorrow so he can verify this fact from you 

first.Kindly clarify us on this issue before we make this payment to these 

foreigners whom came on your behalf.
 
Kindly direct your response to the private email address of my boss,

Mr.Williams Dudley, the Director,Federal Reserve Bank  (FRB), below for quicker 

deliberation and response from him on the release of your funds to you.
 
Please remember to contact the bank Lawyer Mrs. Janet Swing and indicate a phone 

number so she can instruct you on how to make claim. Private Email: 

janetswing512@aol.com Note that for security reasons you have been assigned a 

code/password which is {TT7270FRB},please note that this code is the reference 

number for your transfer and it's being disclosed to you alone, guard this 

jealously and all your email response should carry this code as the subject.
 
Yours faithfully,
Mr. Michael Morgan.

"Guard this jealously" is going to be my new motto.

Also, fun trivia fact:  Michael Bolton used to live on the same street as the house where my mother worked as a private nurse.  I've seen the man doing his early morning jog in Richard Simmons-esque shorts, ponytail trailing behind him.  It's been more than 20 years and the image is still burned into my mind.