Herr Meow is "somewhere upstairs" wreaking havoc. I hear tiny steps darting back and forth. Now a little chubby hand is poking through the banister gap, trying to grab my camera.
Effort thwarted. He resigns himself by posing for some pictures.
I’m still trying to make sense of the latest happenings– Paris Hilton, back to "jail" amid jubilant cries (she’s still not in real jail, but at least she’s miserable). "The Sopranos" ended and more than a few people are disappointed (although the suspenseful ending that culminates in the eating of onion rings sounded quite cool to me). The Tony awards.. meh. The Post series on just how incredibly horrible the DC public school situation is, and how dire and how hard it will be to ever find a solution… depressing stuff.
I’ve been reading other blogs and the newspaper this morning, and even a fantasy novel (because Monsieur Meow and I are doing a genre swap reading thing), and I’ve been poking around the inty-net for news… and I’ve been wondering where my focus is lately. It seems that everything comes out jumbled, and I don’t even have enough focus left in me to do a laundry list. Not even on a Monday, which is a spunky day for me.
But I guess that if I don’t at least try, I’ll never beat this thing, so I’m getting started.
Herr Meow is almost too much to bear. His cuteness obliterates the daily frustration, but holy crap! I am really beginning to wonder what kind of masochistic personality you need to have in order to have more than one child. But then again, since most of the world seems to average more than one child, I’m going to go out on a limb and declare that both Monsieur Meow and I are big, fat weenies because the child is driving us nuts. And, of course, his cuteness makes it hard to even be mean or snippy with him. But he has so much energy and so much fearlessness and so much willingness to explore those things that we’ve told him, time and time again, are off-limits seriously for real what did I say you should know better than that mister don’t make me come get you I’m coming to get you STOP THAT STOP STOP STOP NOOOOOOOOOOO!
"The Next Food Network Star" is kind of a boring show. It’s like a reality show that doesn’t quite know how to behave like a reality show– the judges are actually kind of serious; there are no catchy packaged phrases; the competitions seem to have actual meaning and purpose; the food looked weird and kind of… well, normal. Plus, all the contestants seem way too polite, which is also weird because… aren’t they supposed to edit things so you really start to hate them all and think them spineless, machiavellian jerks? Still, as it often happens these days –thanks to the tiny tyrant who’s got our will to live firmly grasped in his chubby hand– we let torpor take over and we watched a little.
I’ve been cursed out before; as a matter of fact, one of those cursings-out became a darling inside joke that went along the lines of, "Am I a bitch-ass ho, or a ho-assed bitch?"
But nothing quite prepares you for a pissed off, heartfelt, and thoroughly unintelligible tirade from someone who cannot form full sentences –let alone full words– yet. O, Childless masses: you think I’ve gone soft, possibly… but just you wait. The severe judgment from someone so tiny but so full of rage will put the fear of your deity in your heart.
Is anyone’s cat shedding the equivalent of a skein of angora fur every day? Because I’m almost considering shaving my cat’s fur off and she’s not even longhaired.
This article is a little unsettling: Google may be eviler than I thought.
Alrighty. This’ll do her. Have a lovely Monday and stay cool and hydrated.