Be My, Be My Maisy. My One and Only Maisy.

It’s been an eventful week. I got a flat-tire, I pulled my hip out, and my kitty, Maisy, had to go to the big kitty corral in the sky.

I got Maisy and her sister, Litty, soon after they were born in April 1999. I was in fourth grade and had never held a real baby kitten before and ended up panicking and losing control of them while we were still in the driveway. They both scurried under the car before we could even get them house and my mom had some choice words for me about responsibility. Thankfully, they survived their little detour into their new home.

They didn’t have names but once Litty started eating straight from her litter box, well, we’ve never won any awards for being creative. Family legend has it that we named Maisy after the character in Uncle Buck, but in reality (i.e. my reality, which isn’t saying much), we were all in the family room one night with the lights off, about to watch a movie, when there was a commercial for either McDonald’s or Burger King or some other fast food chain, that was giving away Maisy Mouse cartoons or toys. My mother said “Maisy, that’s a nice name” and it stuck.

Being in fourth grade in 1999, we had recently got a family computer to which someone would say I got “excessive” use out of. We received some kind of CD ROM that had all sorts of graphics on it to make posters, awards, etc. Naturally, that meant I had to make official documents stating that Maisy was mine and Litty was my brother’s. Hot of the HP they were shot down almost immediately by the rest of the family. I even had a clause stating that switching ownership was permissible but no one ever reads the fine print.

I grew up with Maisy through grade school and high school, and sure enough she would always be waiting on my bed when I got home from college. I moved out a few years after graduation and would still come and visit my mother and the kitties at least once a month. Every time I left, I would always make sure to kiss each cat and say goodbye. I was home this past weekend and had to rush back to my home (a little less than 2 hours away) to make the pharmacy. I forgot to kiss Maisy goodbye.

A few days later, she appeared to have had a stroke and had renal failure. She made a trip to the vet but being almost 92 in cat years, they said any procedure would only be prolonging the inevitable and it would be wise to consider quality of life. My mom took her home. She seemed to be in pain and stopped eating. A nice veterinarian was able to make a house call a little over a day later and help Maisy take  the big nap.

I miss her already and feel like I’m functioning on a very base level (if I’ve made errors in syntax or grammar, just let this one slide please).

Here she is in her natural habitat, desperately trying to force herself under my sheets.

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Death Becomes Her. (I’m Referring to Myself When I Say Her. I’m Her. Death Becomes Me.)

Everyone harbors special talents that really may serve no purpose except to entertain ourselves. Bragging is unattractive, but I can eat 4 pieces of Texas Toast and sit through 3 seasons of the Sopranos without blinking/exhaling/contemplating my mortality and misguided life choices.

Among giant bread scarfing, filtering my identity out of photos, and mouth breathing, I do have one hidden talent that has remained hidden, as to not frighten the kids/my mom/your nana+papi. ESPECIALLY, your nana+papi. I don’t know if that’s a real word people use for their grandfathers or if I’ve just been exposed to JLO too early in my life to know any difference.

Back to my talent, or maybe it’s more of a condition, but I  have a knack for predicting when someone is about to feel the dank kiss of death. Sometimes days before, sometimes months before they die. DON’T X OUT YET. I have a pretty solid record of being right about it. I can’t name names specifically (at least not usually) but I can tell if male/female, age range, and what type of relationship I have to them. Kind of like those cats that walk around hospitals and snuggle with the old people who are about to die.

WEIRD, RIGHT?

Feel free to ask questions. It’s weird and I don’t even really understand it, but that’s like most secret abilities and gifts, I suppose.

Normally, I would have never shared this on here but it happened when a distant relative died this past week and I was thinking about how I still hadn’t come up with a post for the week. HEHE.

Alright kids, enjoy your Monday!

Love,

Lolo von Iseedeadpeoplebutnotreallythatdbeweirdasshitsteinbergsongirl

P.S. Enjoy this picture of Peaches.

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11.

List 15 of your favorite things.

You’d think that would be a good question for #15.

But it’s not it’s number 11 on DAY 11 of the BLOG CHALLENGE.

It’s very open ended. Hmm…Well. In no particular order, here are 15 of my favorite things in list form!

1) The X-Files.

2) Stand-up comedy.

3) Animows (animals for you lay persons).

4) Reading self-help books.

5) Mocha iced coffee. Slurp, slurp, slurp.

6) Cartoons! Muppets! Hooray!

7) Netflix. God Bless America. Is the B in bless capitalized? I don’t know, it looks weird without it. I blame the structuring of song titles for that.

8) French onion soup. French onion dip. French onion everything.

9) Singing. I did that for a while.

10) Convincing people they should be my friend because I love them.

11) Lipstick and nail polish. BALLAH.

12) Wearing whatever I want. Platforms. Spaceship sandals. Wookie t-shirts.

13) Singing in the car and driving around in general. I turned on the radio and was greeted with the Pokemon theme song followed by Istanbul (They Might Be Giants). I nearly drove my car straight to the moon.

14) Coke. Either in a can or fountain.

15) Pretzel m&m’s.

Yay!

Those are 15 of my favorite things! Cool, right?

No?

Well fine.

Until next time, my crepe-nuts.

 

P.S. I forgot to mention my kitty, MooMoo. 😀

Coke Whore

I’m sorry, did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the cracking of my sweet, delicious Coke.

The cracking of the can, the first sip of crisp liquid love.

I’ve fallen back into my old habits.

When I was in 6th grade I would have a minimum of 5 cans per day, along with 2 meatball Hot Pockets. I stopped drinking it and lost a bunch of weight, but now over 2 years out of college I find myself standing in front of the display at CVS wondering which package will come home with Mama.

I touched that one, but I saw that one first. Well I can’t just choose between my children. You both can come home! (Cue me walking out of the store with a 12 pack under each arm.)

I get into my car and there are cans in all the designated cup holders. The trash bag in the back seat is filled to the brim with cans that clink around as a drive, just like Santa’s sleigh bells.

I didn’t really see the problem with it. I love what I love and it’s the one thing, you know, besides friends and family and bler blah barf, that I can rely on.

I did question myself as I was sitting at my desk, watching some stand-up, when reached for my Coke. I started to take a sip when I came out of my Coke haze and remembered I hadn’t put my Coke on my desk. I looked over at my night stand and my darling cherub sat there in all it’s beautiful red glory, shining like the angel of mercy it is.

I looked down at the Coke in my hand and realized it was probably from when I was cleaning my room the weekend prior.

That would explain the green fuzz growing around the mouth piece. I thought maybe this can came with it’s own terrarium. Got to be environmentally conscientious these days.

I mean, even the name Coke, sounds like the noise it makes when you open the can. The freshness. The bubbles dancing around on my tongue. Sweet relief.

At any rate that’s where I am, squealing with delight over a box of Cokes that still have the polar bears on the can, even though the box didn’t indicate they were the winter edition.

Now that is a true treasure.

Until next time, my Chipsqueaks!

Animow

I’m wearing a jacket and leaned my elbow on the desk and it made a farting noise. Hehe.

But back to Animows. Today I was sitting at lunch, eating my second bowl of fiber cereal, which isn’t the best tasting, but it’s cereal and no one can just eat one bowl, unless you’re a witch.

I got to thinking about how fitness trainers and diet planners say not to reward yourself with food, because you aren’t an animal. Pardon me, while I hate all of that and drink a gallon of smashed up McDonald’s french fries. Firstly, yes I am an animal and secondly, I don’t think I want to know a person who doesn’t treat eating like a reward. That’s the whole point. Sure, it sustains life and that’s great but that only comes second to how fantastic shoving your mouth full of soda and strawberry doughnuts and pouring chocolate syrup down your face feels.

That’s how I start my day. I reward myself for getting out of bed and going to work by stopping at a coffee place and getting the largest vat of mocha iced coffee they have. If I didn’t do that, I’d be crying at my desk all day. Useless, sad, alone. But with my scrumpsh reward, I can somehow find the strength within me to live and do things like check my Facebook and watch RuPaul’s Drag Race and answer phone calls.

Another point is, it’s April. Everyone knows that April is the crusty butthole of the 12-month calendar year. It’s April, it’s raining, and it’s a Tuesday. Monday’s are better than Tuesday because you know they are terrible. Wednesday means we got through the bad part, Thursday means we can say YAY TOMORROW’S FRIDAY LET’S DRINK, and Friday means we get to sleep in Saturday. How can a person even live through a Tuesday without rewarding themselves with gourmet microwave popcorn their mother planted in a movie theater butter popcorn box because she’s a dirty trickster.

I see no other reason than to celebrate food and be enslaved by it’s glory.

Until next time, Wondersluts!

Yes, Pigs Do Have Bank Accounts

Hey. Hi. How are ya?

Good. I’m happy. I sucked down a bunch of coffee and I’m wearing a men’s tank top because fuck the establishment. I’m not really sure what that means because I had a meatball sub yesterday instead of going to the gym because that’s all that matters.

Am I crazy? I don’t know, do pigs not have 401Ks? I think the proof is in the partridge in a pear tree.

But back to my tank top. It’s of outer space, which I’m feeling resentful of, but it has kittens riding slices of pizza. Nothing has ever felt so right.

Still with me? Good. Enjoy that beef ravioli.

Until next time, chapstick lovers!

 

Ouchies

Hi kitnips!

I tore my leg out of it’s socket today. You would think it might have been from the twenty minutes I spent doing mountain climbers, or the hour of boxing, or maybe even rolling over the hood of my car trying to get away from the mob. All valid excuses and I’m sore from all of those, but I really did some damage when I bent over to pick up the M&M I dropped. I didn’t think before I leapt into action, I just couldn’t risk it rolling under my desk or beneath my dresser. I couldn’t take the chance. I’m at least 80% sure that was dust and not cat litter.

In other news, I’m too lazy to do laundry so shorts it is! Fifty degrees can be beautiful providing the wind doesn’t blow over  2mph.

I’m burping up Chinese food, that means it’s time for bed.

Until next time, my bodacious breadcrumbs!

I Hope I Don’t Steal That Genie’s Notebook

I’ve said it before, but I feel the need to preface this post with, I don’t roll around in granola, chanting mantras, and making tea from the dung of a pack mule.

BUT I am very interested in the idea of following coincidence and synchronicity. I don’t know too much about it, but I know enough to recognize that a lot of kooky stuff has happened  to me and the more you notice coincidences, the more they will pop up.

WELL FRIENDS, today I was farting around on my library’s website, and since their website is worth farting on, I went to the Barnes and Noble website to search through books on synchronicity and bleeblahblarf. I typed in “synchronicity” and the only book that popped up was “Synchronicity: The Art of Coincidence, Choice, and Unlocking Your Mind.” Oh perfect! Just wanted I wanted!

Huh, the author’s name is Dr. Kirby Surprise.

My middle name is Kirby…

Surprise! 

What a coincidence that I was looking up a book on coincidences and that was the name of the author. Innerestin’ right?

I keep a journal (well, 4, since I have a compulsion when buying notebooks) of all the weird coincidences that pop up for me. The phrase “you’re wish is my command” pops up a lot, as does the number 68. This, which goes without saying, obviously means I’m going to meet a genie and he’s going to grant me 68 wishes but only if I don’t steal all his notebooks. You have to set barriers, you know.

I’m going to read through the book within the next couple days and report back if anything more unusual pops up, like maybe the author is really my twin that got separated from me that one time at that KMart and grants wishes!

Until next time, kids.