Tuesday, September 26, 2006


Last Tuesday, I got up, got the kids breakfast and one off to school, and came back home to start to clean up for the day. I got to the the kitchen, and while stooped over to grab some toy, I noticed streaks of blood on the linoleum. I knew that if it had been from either one of the kids, I would've been notified immediately. My heart sank as I realized it was probably one of my cats, Scout or Boo. Boo's an indestructible shit, but my mild and meek Scouters is eight years old. Since she still doesn't know her name is Scout, I kissed for her, and she came out from under the couch.

I tried not to cry. She's snow white, and I could see the blood on her tail as soon as she popped out. When I got ahold of her, I saw her tail looked like someone had tried to pull her skin and hair off her tail like a sock. The skin was just hanging there in a bloody mess.

So, to cut to the chase, we humans are out $295 and Scout's out about three inches of tail. The vet said they could try to just stitch the skin, but that she'd worry it'd die and/or get infected. We have no earthly idea how it happened. The vet said she didn't think it looked like another cat, so Boo's cleared. I've questioned and questioned the boychild, and I really believe he has no earthly idea either. I did a thorough search of the house for clumps of hair and gore, and nothing. I'm just hoping it was a fluke and doesn't happen again.

For viewing pleasure, here's our cat despising all humans:

We tried leaving the e-collar off, but she promptly tried to chew on her tail and then cry out in pain. We take it off once a day for a break and for her to furiously bathe.

And finally, here's her poor ratty, nubbin tail. I try not to shudder if it brushes against me:

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Tips on how not to be an asshole

Really. No one thinks you're cool when you order your tall latte nonfat, with 13.5 pumps of vanilla syrup, 180°, no foam, extra whipped cream in a grande cup. People think you're a pain-in-the-neck asshole. And just how many lattes did you have to drink to come up with that perfect combo to annoy people with? Does your world end if you get only 12 pumps? I'll give you a couple of changes per drink. Like two. Like nonfat and extra hot. But get over yourself on the other stuff.

And for the love of all things holy, do not complain that we fill the cups too full. Because I know you'd be the same jerk to complain that we didn't fill the cups enough. We try to give you the best deal for your dollar. It's not our fault that you're not smart enough to drink a hot beverage without spilling it all over yourself.

When ordering at the drive-through, never mumble. Ever. Speak slowly and clearly, and face the freaking speaker. Don't order while staring at the glovebox, because we'll have you repeat your order nine times until we understand that it's exactly 13.5 pumps of vanilla syrup you want.

Friday, September 22, 2006

I'd never call it an "accident."

Have you ever been very asleep with your spouse and then sometime in the middle of the night, someone molests the other and that turns into crazy, unconscious sex? The kind of sex you don't really wake up for until it's over? That happened to us approximately three weeks ago. And that crazy, unconscious, but still really fun romp turned into three very positive home pregnancy tests. Surprise! And that's what I'll call it from now on: Surprise! It sounds so much better than Accident!

I think that this being the third and all, we're stepping into minivan territory. I really can't describe how bad I hate minivans. They scream Soccer Mom! Bad hair! Really large ass! And while two of those definitely describe me, I don't wanna announce to just everyone. My dad insists that minivan is the way to go, especially with three kids, and hey, don't you know what causes that? but he doesn't know everything.

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