Bad kitty. BAD!!!!

31 08 2009

I’m old enough to now preface some stories of mine with me saying “Years ago…” Which, obviously means I have amassed enough fodder for laughs to keep my little bloggy going for some time now…. And I love to tell a good story.

So, years ago, when Dan and I first moved in together, waaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the mid 90’s, we got ourselves two kitties. Tika and Silky. They were very sweet, they were loved and doted upon, they drove us crazy, they were our babies… You know, before we had actual human babies.

One night, as we lay in bed, drooling and snoring away, completely oblivious to the night prowlings of our feline friends, I became aware of some odd sound. A sound that I couldn’t immediately identify. See, I was in the midst of a dream, so struggling my way out of dreamland into conciousness only added to the confusion of what was about to happen to me.

The sound I speak of was a squeaky sound.

The sound that, oh say, a mouse might make.

I woke, disoriented, to find my black cat Silky sitting on my chest. I was all “Umph… Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhh….” and was SHOCKED, and also very DISMAYED to see, by the moonlit night casting a dim cool glow in our bedroom that she had a live mouse in her mouth.

Yep. I said it. A live mouse.

And, oh, my dears….. That isn’t the worst of it…..

She saw I was awake and proceeded to spit the live mouse onto my chest. Where it squiggled and squeaked and scurried upon my naked flesh.

I shrieked, and threw the blanket off of me, which included the mouse and my cat.

Thud went the cat, and thump went the mouse, after flying through the air and hitting the wall. The mouse went running, the cat went chasing and I was left, wide awake at 2 AM, wondering if there was any form of psychotherapy that handled this kind of shit.

And Dan….. My sweet, oblivious, comatose man….. Well, he kept on snoring and drooling and dreaming away. I really wanted to punch him for not being remotely aware of the trauma I had just endured….

Frickin’ cats…..

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And, no, my last name isn’t Kervorkian.

28 08 2009

I am the exuberant owner of a 25 gallon freshwater aquarium. I love my fish, which consist of varied cichlids.  Love them so much, in an admittedly fanatical and weird way, that when we watch the tank, we call it FishTV and also, that they have names. Awesome, cool and righteous names like Dave, Sunshine, Lil Sharky, Marvin, Megan, Morgan, Julie and (my personal favorite) Stella McSnazzypants. Some of these little fellers I have had for over 5 years now.

Anyway, last year I had 2 angelfish. One was Flash, a sassy female with black stripes. (She’s kind of a rebel, that one…) and FatBoy Slim, a huge solid silver angelfish with wise red eyes and a peaceful outlook on life. (Yeah, I am Teh Gay….) One day, I went to feed them, and saw that FatBoy Slim was swimming upside down. I laughed, and then he righted himself and ate his breakfast and carried on to his fish-day of courting Flash and chasing the other fish around the tank and pooping a lot. Good times in fish land world, my friends. Good times.

But I soon noticed that he would inexplicably and slowly turn upside down and swim for longer stretches of time. I watched him do this, and I swear he was looking at me thinking “Hey Bitch!!! WTF is going on? Help me out here, for the love of God!!!!!”

I looked up his symptoms. Swim Bladder Disease. Not usually fatal in itself, but being in a closed aquarium, the other bad-asses were now attacking him as he floated upside down in a vulnerable state.

FatBoy Slim was dying.

I can’t let things suffer, so I looked up how to euthanize a fish. Yeah, oddly, there’s TONS of info about that on the interwebs….

I prepared a bowl, filled it with water and clove oil. Grimly, I caught FatBoy Slim and put him in the Bowl of Death.

My kids were interested.

Well, he swam (upside down) for a few minutes until the clove oil slowly made him drowsy. And then, the piece de resistance. I took a bottle of Stoli and poured about a half cup into his water.

Then I waited.

My kids were very interested now.

We conceded after about an hour, that FatBoy Slim was either very close to death, as there was no movement at all, or just reeeeeeaaaaaally drunk. Either way, I knew it was time for the final act.

FatBoy Slim met his maker on my kitchen counter top, wrapped in a paper towel, via my rolling pin.

That motherf*cker held on to the last remnants of life with a strange vigor I can only attribute to very good vodka. I had to wack him three times before he *sniff* died.

I didn’t like doing that. But what I hated even more was to see him get slowly pulled apart and nibbled by the other fish.

We buried him in my daughter’s flower garden, and laid a lovely rock memorial on his tiny grave.

Flash went to live with my sister’s fish, as the other cichlids soon began to terrorize her, eating her lovely long fins down to nothing. She has reigned supreme in her new home, growing her fins back to their former glory. Sadly, though, I got the call the other day. Flash is starting to swim upside down now too…… I wonder if my Kervorkian-esque ability will be needed over there…

FatBoy Slim and Flash





New Post Idea: WTF has Tutter rolled in???? Volume 1.

24 08 2009

OK, so Tutter goes to Opa’s farm whenever we leave for the odd holiday.

Opa is my husband’s father, a quick-witted wizened old Dutchman, who emigrated to Canada from The Netherlands back in the 50’s. He taught himself English through Archie comics and working his way through Canada with his brother, ultimately  ending up the owner of a beautiful remote piece of heaven in the West Kootenays along the west arm of Kootenay Lake. He has raised many animals in his day, he is a wealth of information about farming. He is one cool cat. I love him very much….

Tutter, thusly, has a grand time at Opa’s. He gets to run amok in a 40 acre farm, complete with chickens, cows, good “sniffies” and nothing but time on his paws….. So,  this past August weekend, as we journeyed south to the States to have some fun at Silverwood, the dog stayed at my in-laws..

However.

He inevitably comes home very smelly.

Lord God. He smells worse than that dead raccoon me and the kids found along the highway one time and had to poke with sticks on a hot summer’s day.

That was smelly and squishy. Also:

It. Was. Awesome.

Tutter, however, is smelling not so awesome.

He stinks. Really bad.

I can’t quite put my finger on what it is that he smell like. Fish? No. Dead skunk? No. Cow pie? No. Rotten vegetables from compost? No.

It’s just moist. And musty. And wrong.

Ugh. Dogs are fucking gross. So, he is getting a hose-down with lots of doggy shampoo in the morning. And then, after having touched his fur, I’m gonna need a hose-down myself. That is, unless I can find a Haz-Mat suit on short notice…….

So, yeah, dogs are gross. Really really gross. And yet, I love that stinky dog a whole bunch.





The Shiz My Kids Say

19 08 2009

My son (age 10) was over at my sister’s house last week. She overheard a conversation between him and his cousin (age 9) about “Hotties”.

She looked at Nick and asked “Well, do you know what a hottie is?”

“Yeah,” he said, pointing a finger at her… “It’s the opposite of YOU.”

ZING!!!!

****

Upon receiving his final report card for the year in June, my nephew exuberantly ran to his dad to tell him all about it. With pride and a huge smile he announced “Daddy!!!! It says I EXPELLED in science!!!!”

****

We were discussing my tattoo I have on my… well… my “Tramp Stamp” area. I called it my lower back. My son, epic smart-ass that he is, called it my “Upper Butt Tattoo”. Gawd love him….





In Which I Prove That, Yes, I Am A Human FAIL…..

13 08 2009

I live out of town. Town, for me, is a half hour drive. 35 kilometres… or for you south of the border folks, I have no fucking idea how many miles. 15? Yeah…. Whatever…..

So, obviously, to get ALL my shit done in town is  a royal pain in the ass. Groceries, banking, and what little “Me Time” I can squeeze in, especially during the summer when I have the kids home full time is always a bit of a grind…… Therefore, I forgo a lot of  the little things….. I make due….

Like, oh, say…. waxing. Of the bikini area…. *points downwards*

So, knowing this, I bought a kit. Yeah. A home waxing kit. Perfect for those emergency hair removal moments when going to the beach in your bikini just might get you branded as the Sasquatch Woman.

(A word to the wise… If you are squeamish IN ANY WAY, do not read any further…)

This morning, I was ready. I noticed there were *ahem* little hairs needing to be removed, ASAP… The weather, yes, was rainy, but it will be sunny in a couple day, and I for one, do NOT want to waste any valuable beach time in hair removal, so I opted to go for it this morning… If anything, I am a time saver….. Go me.

I warmed the wax. I had oil ready for any mishaps for wax removal. I am not afraid of the pain. I had the strips in hand, and I went for it.

When the directions say “Hold the skin taut and remove strip quickly”, I would recommend  putting the entire kit down, walking away and phoning your nearest salon to book an appointment. See, like most humans, I only have two hands. Therefore rendering the task of holding one’s delicate skin taut and ripping a waxy muslin strip off of one’s nethers almost impossible. I did the upper area, no problem. Then came the inner area. I spread the wax, applied the cloth strip and pulled.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK”  Is what I vaguely recall that flew out of my mouth.

Beads of sweat appeared on  my brow. I looked and saw no wax removed. I applied the strip again, holding my breath and my bits as taut as I could.

“FUCK ME RUNNING…….. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”

I looked. Yes, the wax was removed, and I could see the beginnings of a bruise the size, and oddly the shape, of a baby chipmunk on my lady bits.

I started to feel faint. But I wasn’t about to give up.

The other side went remarkably much better, although, somehow I ended up with a blob of wax running down my thigh and a chunk of it in my hair (the stuff on my head… yeah I have no idea….) and my left shoulder. Now, if you don’t already know, let me fill you in. That shit is really really STICKY. So imagine. Stickiness. Just where you really don’t want it. Especially when trying to walk.

Now, by this time,  I am starting to get irritated. When the urge to punch myself in the face happens I know it is time to stop whatever I am doing and walk away….. Which I did. But not before stepping into a puddle of gooey sticky wax, congealing on my brand new tile floor.

After I cleaned up as best I could, I went downstairs. There, my 8 year old daughter asked me, with her lovely blue eyes as big as saucers, what Mommy was swearing about upstairs.

I told her that Mommy was an Epic Fail.





Crop Dusting.

10 08 2009

This past weekend, my sister, my cousin and I left all of our kids behind with their daddies and went on a road trip to Vancouver. Primarily for my cousin’s wedding, it rapidly became known as the Hussies on Vino Laugh Extravaganza. Girls are SO much fun to go out with, to shop with, to drink $15 dollar a glass wine with (more about that later….) and to talk about damn near everything one could possibly entertain discussion-worthy. For reals, yo. GIRLS RULE!!!!!

We were at the reception on Saturday evening, seated at this amazing country club. My Gawd, it was a lovely wedding. The bride was elegant and absolutely stunning, and my cousin, the groom made all of us cry with his devotion and love for her, and his sweet and tender reaction to seeing his bride walk down the aisle. We were lucky to be seated to three girl cousins of the brides, whom were from Wales. We hit it off, laughing and drinking and having a great old time.

The place started to fill up. People were filing in, finding their seating arrangements. At one point, an elderly man walked behind us, on his way to his seat. About three seconds after he walked away, I could smell something. Now, I had, by then, imbibed two glasses of champagne and was on glass of white wine number 2, so let’s just say my social propriety was a bit fuzzy, and I turned to my sister and cousin and asked “Did that old guy just fart and walk away?”

Oh, yes. HE DID. Our eyes began to water, not only from the stench, but from the laughter we were trying, and failing miserably at holding in. Now, look. No one wants to talk about farts at such a lovely and fancy wedding, but I guess he adhered to the old adage “Better out than in…” Still trying to not guffaw too loudly, we held our pashminas to our noses, when another little old lady, trying to walk behind her chair, gently asked my cousin “Could you just breathe in a bit dear?” to which she replied “I don’t WANT to!!!!”

Well, that was it. The giggles hit us hard. The welsh cousins looked at all three of us with confusion and a touch of disdain. After another minute, the air cleared and things calmed down a bit… But it was one of those circumstances that led to the chronic giggles, pretty much all evening.

It was a fantastic weekend, though. I love getting away, especially with girls. It fills my soul up, to be surrounded by women and all the wonders good friends provide.

Witches of Eastwick road trip 022(Left to right, my sister, my cousin and I)

Oh, and that glass of wine? We first pulled in to Park Royal shopping centre, and decided to have a quick one before tackling the stores on Friday night. I had a glass of a basic Inniskillin Pinot Grigio, which I buy for about $12 back home. When we were charged $14.95 per glass, I nearly shit my pants. WTF? That’s just rude, don’t yah think?