Crunchy Thoughts

I would be the first one to admit that, as far as looks go, I am average. Of course, my husband would disagree with me (I think the term ‘babe-alicious’ would creep into his mind), but in the eyes of most of society, I am just another chick goin’ to Wal-Mart on a Thursday afternoon. Therefore I was much surprised today when I was treated to cat-calls and other general hooplah . . . by a five year old.

“Hey, come here and give me a kissy-kissy,” he hollered at me repeatedly. “I just want a kissy!”

What do you say to such advances from a gangly backwoods kindergartner? Should you feel honored or just immensely creeped out? I go for the latter. I mean, that kid could grow up to be the next Pee Wee Herman. He certainly looked the part.

This situation also could be sad as well, since I’m only hit on by pre-adolescent guys. No guys my age oogle at me, except that one dude from Steven’s apartment, and I wonder if he was slightly drunk, or stoned, or both. Nevertheless, it makes for a good story.

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I’m slowly gettin ready for the trip. My clothes are a-washin now, and then I shall pack. I better not forget Renton’s food, toys, his otter bitch, and his leash. I need the Plexiglas and paint, the camera, DVD’s for Cathy, phone charger, blender, uhhh, toothbrush, and surely I’ll remember the normal clothes and my entourage of self-grooming items. And if I do forget any of this stuff, certain people can ride my ass about it all week, because how can someone post a list of ‘stuff to get’ on their blog and then forget it? Surely I am above that.

Ha ha ha.

Oh yeah, swimsuit! And flip flops that I intend to mod this weekend.

I won’t forget a thing.

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And one last note, did you know that the word ‘blog’ is not in Blogger’s dictionary? Me either, until just a second ago. Oddsfish.

What is it now, a Tuesday? Yeah, a Tuesday. Let’s see, amusing things presented in an amusing manner . . . I’m stumped. Guess I’ll fall back on the old staple of rambling.

I was talking with Steven the other day, and I remarked, “I’m creative. I’m so creative I make no sense . . . at least I make sorta pseudo-sense to you”

“Say what?” Steven replied.

I guess I just don’t make sense at all.

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Renton is bouncing off the walls tonight. I caught him on the counter earlier, bad kitty. I put him in the bathroom to punish him, and while in there Renton fussed up quite a stink. It hit my nostrils the moment I let him out for dinner. Well, at least I know he’s getting a meaty diet.

One would think that I’d write at least one more once before we leave, but if not, be aware that a bunch of us are goin’ to the beach next week, so I won’t be writin’ nothin’. Yo. I’m digressing into gansta-speak. Yes yes, trip trip, fun fun, bye bye.

It’s always a nice, quiet evening around here when I have given Renton a bath. He seems to think it unseemly that he should be so clean, so he licks himself for hours until his coat is glazed with a new sheen of cat spit. It is three hours gone since his bath and he is still in his chair, preening away at a paw.

Renton’s chair. He confiscated it from me, you know. He tries to take his dad’s and his Aunt Cathy’s office chair as well when he is visiting them. My chair, I’m afraid, he has stolen for good. It is half my fault, however. I’ve sat in that chair so much that there is no butt padding left, so a few weeks ago I dragged the recliner chair, otherwise known as the Blue Chair, from the living room into the computer room, where most of my time, sadly, is spent. I now sit quite low to the desk, and my hands fall asleep rapidly, but my butt is comfy, and Renton gets his own chair.

Sometimes, if he is feeling paticuarly oppressive, he will perch on top of the back of the Blue Chair and gawk at me like a vulture. It’s like Snoopy, but with a devil-eyed cat instead.

And speaking of the devil, I now have photographic proof of Renton’s evilness. This is the animal that I share my abode with:

Yep, that’s my baby. The WolfDevil.

Well, it has been a while, hasn’t it? Terribly sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit busy recently, and I did get to have an adventure as well, so at least I’ve got stuff to comment on now. Not that anyone pays attention to any of this.

On Wednesday, I got to have a bonifide trip in an ambulance. Looking back on it now, it was quite amusing, especially the sign above the back doors that read “Providing You With Quality Care” or something thereof. Wouldn’t that be oh so comforting if that was the last thing you saw before you died? Lovely. At the time, of course, I was a bit too freaked to notice the amusement.

I’m still not quite sure what happened, actually. I don’t care to go into too much detail, as it is boring, but I was alone at work and my heartbeat reacted oddly when I had to use my asthma inhaler. So I do the 911 thing, they come and collect me, monitor me, and drive me over to ye olde DeKalb hospital, where I then wait two hours to see a doctor and one more hour to finally be let home. By that time, Steven had said “Fuq school,” and was one hour in to the three hour trip up here from Auburn. I was so glad he drove all that way just for me. I am also eternally grateful to my boss and his family, who kept me company while I was sitting there contemplating what looked to be a booger on the curtain (hey, it’s an improvement over the last time I was in an ER (Brookwood), where I saw blood on the ceiling). After all, I don’t know anybody in this town except them and my Renton, who as yet has not learned how to drive. Heck, we’re still working on the toliet thing with him.

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Speaking of Renton, there seem to be no stories about him recently. He is being too good, too sweet, too unlike himself lately for there to be any interesting stories. Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to know that I can trust him in the computer/guest/extra room while I run to the bathroom for two minutes. It’s been quite a wonderful luxury; I wonder where my karma is gonna make me pay.

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Random fact: 87 days ’till Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. And, of course, that leads into . . .

88 days until Howard Shore himself conducts the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra in the music from Lord of the Rings. I’ve got my tickets in the chifferobe; where are yours?