Saturday, December 24, 2011

Miss Lacey's naughty little Christmas...

Mom would always exclaim that a wild eyed feline racing through the house in fourth gear, ricocheting off walls, maneuvering across an obstacle course of furniture at the speed of light...bric-a-bracs flying left and right, sliding over tabletops and polished floors taking linens and papers along for the ride, was just a cat feeling it's a dog with two tails...zippy...zappy...vivacious.

Lacey, Lacey, Lacey...feeling her oats doesn't even begin to describe little Miss Naughty Pants.  Holiday decorations hidden back in their boxes in an attempt to be spared the fangs and claws of mayhem and destruction...dinner with a glass of wine, fly swatter, and squirt bottle to thwart off monkey-faces' stampeding tootsies doing a jitterbug on the dinner plate while clamping her jaws onto my meat speared fork...and now drowning in sleep deprivation from purring yowling growling that is just one decibel below a rock star band, as a neutered Andee bats and swats an un-spayed Lacey all over the joint, cause she's a frisky little tart sashaying all around him, and he'll have absolutely none of just doesn't do a darn thing for him :( 

Oh, how I'm dreaming of something un-Christmassy for that vet and his put-on-hold-until-she's-better-than-best spaying timetable, as all hell has broken loose in our household with an indoor kitty-making-machine on a mission to pop out a few little kitties of her own.


Line 'em up!

Wind blowing through the treetops sending chills up my spine, as one of the shortest periods of daylight of my year is finding me composing a short newsletter so short on time that it missed my outgoing holiday it's for your eyes only if you should happen to stop by on your way to Christmas.

Searching high and low each year for the perfect Christmas card embellished with cat or cats ( odd year with loopy dogs), a few Christmases' ago one from the United Kingdom sent bells ringing and fireworks blazing across my sky; so mailed out all those square little jobbers only to have them all come back with insufficient postage rudely stamped across their face...we can do anything...well, almost anything except send a square envelope first class without extra postage.

Last year it was a cute little handmade number from Etsy with Dickens' cats singing carols on a snowy street corner.  This year it was hodgepodge grab-what's-left any old card from two different Hallmark Shops, Target, Walgreen, Rite-Aid, and Perkin's Drugs.  My spirit somehow has been a bit deflated this holiday season, no oomph, no giddy-up-and-go, no angels singing on high. 

Only about half of the decorations could be set up due to a little stinker pot named Lacey.  No presents by the mantle waiting to be opened Christmas budget channeled into selecting a nice little pressed glass antique for mom's 90th birthday on the 29th of this holiday month.  Can you imagine!  Now that's truly something to celebrate, cause she's still doing remarkably well!

Christmas dinner hasn't been figured out quite yet...oh, the last minute intrigue of shopping for eats when time has already flown out the window.  We aren't traditional, so Italian is always #1 of the choices, but Italian what???  Hmmmmm...

Did purchase four thick, extra-large, colorful, slightly over-the-top Italian felt stockings to be hung by the fireplace with care, in hopes that Saint Nicholas is out there somewhere and not truly just an adult fabrication to trick little brats tykes into being good for the year.

I'll be absent in body and mind from THE JOB until next year, cause I can with only three days leave involved...hooa-a-a-a-ah.  Eleven days of doing nothing but feeling the love of the Christmas for me.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Under the Mistletoe

                                      Sitting under the mistletoe
                                      (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
                                      One last candle burning low,
                                      All the sleepy dancers gone,
                                      Just one candle burning on,
                                      Shadows lurking everywhere:
                                      Some one came, and kissed me there.

                                      Tired I was; my head would go
                                      Nodding under the mistletoe
                                      (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
                                      No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
                                      Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
                                      Stooped in the still and shadowy air
                                      Lips unseen - and kissed me there.
                                                         Mistletoe by Walter de la Mare (1913)       

Oh, for the good old days
when people would stop Christmas shopping
when they ran out of money.

                            Cheap White Plastic Lawn Chairs

                            We mostly sat outside in the summer
                            in those cheap white plastic lawn chairs
                            from the neighborhood Safeway Store...
                            the ones that only cost a few bucks.

                            We talked about all the past memories
                            that were packed into our lives,
                            I talked about all the past memories
                            that were packed into our lives.

                            About that one Christmas
                            when brother and I were still little tykes,
                            when the stockings still hung
                            by that fake chimney with care,
                            good grief...
                            such a long, long time ago.                            

                            That Christmas, when mom and dad
                            covertly spent most of their evening
                            and some of the next morning,
                            putting two unwilling bicycles together
                            as surprises from Santa Claus.

                            I couldn't believe...this many years gone past,
                            the supreme disappointment they expressed 
                            that my brother and I,
                            sneaking a peek that Christmas eve,
                            already knew who Santa really was.

                            I felt like they still believed
                            in the magic of that jolly old man.
                            I burst their vision of that cherished memory,
                            I felt a slight regret.

                            Alright already...
                            I felt an extreme burden of deep regret
                            letting that cat out of Santa's bag
                            when they were old and grey.

                            I thought about that Easter,
                            when my brother and I stood tippy toed
                            each on the headboards of our beds,
                            stretching our necks,
                            peeking over the window ledge.
                            What!!! was the Easter bunny :(

                            Decided not to talk to them about that one.

                                      Lacey's Dozen

                                      On the twelfth day of Christmas,
                                      My crazed cat sent to me,
                                      Twelve stray toms yowling,
                                      Eleven mice not playing,
                                      Ten fleas a leaping,
                                      Nine mangled garlands,
                                      Eight chewed up buttons,
                                      Seven shredded X-cards,
                                      Six smashed glass baubles,
                                      Fi-i-i-i-ve fresh fur balls...
                                      Four silent birds,
                                      Three plucked hens,
                                      Two wingless doves,
                                      And a tinsel stuck in a butt hole.

Aren't we forgetting
the true meaning of Christmas?
You know,
the birth of Santa.
Bart Simpson



I love Christmas!
No matter,
no gifts...that's life,
no bah humbugs allowed here,
cause I lo-o-o-o-ove Christmas!

The air's alive
with song and happy dance,
friends and good cheer,
no bah humbugs will be here,
cause I lo-o-o-o-ove Christmas!

So put a smile
on that sour puss face,
in my glad space,
No bah humbugs welcomed here,
cause I lo-o-o-o-ove Christmas!

Saturday, December 3, 2011


The Feline Hazmat Aftermath Journal

Part-time pooch persecutor, retired fluff of the Green Front R-Light District, and an avid advocate of a healthy free-range small boned songbird in every feline household...Miss Zoe Feather Bender has agreed to create an uncensored monthly column in our publication expanding the fine craft of artful bitching to explosive portions without the fallout of those pesky critic's reviews.  Please comment.  Miss ZFB thrives on adversity, and will answer all questions most likely in a very untimely manner; after all, she is a workaholic puss with an agenda to crumble mankind to the very bottom of the pecking order.

In my ZFB       

Surviving the Toxic Nightmare of Living with Nincompoops

Person-of-Interest:  Any human that thinks.
Nincompoop:  Any human that doesn't think.

Today we will waste our time with Persons-of-Interest and stress.  Human that thinks + Stress = Human that doesn't think. today we will waste our time with the only humans left on this earth...the Nincompoops.  Mind you, I'm speaking only from my extremely limited view of this world, from this prison my human of temporary significance traps me in called her home.

She's a modern human of maaaaany years, and her collection of tools of mass communication plus her inability to flex her knees well affords me a small quantity of time in the pale light of this monitor after bedtime to extend these claws of mass destruction, and spread my thoughts to the universe of felines united that another comrade on another blog clued me about...thanks, Miz Bitey...I owe you one.

I'm living with a nincompoop!!!  I know, I all warned me, so go ahead and tell me you told me so...grrrrrrrrrrrr...  Why would any human with boobs boil milk over onto a glass stove top four different times on four different burners.  You think her brain's become demented with dementia?...dah, I could have told you that!  Why would anyone want to ruin good milk that way?

Felines are the perfect conservationists...we conserve energy at least 86% of any given day by sleeping it entirely away.  Waste not, want not.  Why any ninny of temporary significance would waste the last three hours blowing her energy resources to smithereens is completely clueless to this feline of permanent significance and non-nincompoopie ways.

Three hours of covering that burnt milk crud with paste, counting to a hundred, then cursing up a royal storm as she mangled her fingers into permanent positions never intended for any human digits, circularly grinding that non-scratchy spongy thing flatter than a skunk squished twice on the roadway into that why would anyone invent something as stupid as this? glass stove top.

That burner's spotless...she's proud of herself...what a simpleton...she's still got three more burners to go, hehehe.  She's asleep now, slathered in BIOFREEZE, pumped full of Ibuprofen and Valerian Root, neck draped over a cool gel roll, heat pad toasting the shoulder muscles, she's a regular nincompoop first class alright.

Any feline worth it's weight in sardines knows to just leave the pans on the stove to cover up the goofs...what's the problem?  Don't feel sorry for me comrades.  I've assembled a survival kit for myself to handle the fallout that occurs as a result of my temporary significant humans many brain dysfunctions.  2%'s more than enough time to pee, poo, munch, hurl up digested nummies, spit out fuzz balls, or blog.  The rest is snooze time...pure snooze time.  Survival doesn't get any better than this!

Friday, December 2, 2011

Take me to Memphis...

In line
behind me,
what the!...
glamour girl
on each arm,
wait -
that getup,
you've got
to be

touring Elvis.
go figure...!
no one cares -
no one freakin' cares
is amongst us,
no one...
so sad,

even this cool idiot
raises no eyebrows.

That's alright,
Uhh huhh!!


Lisa Marie...simply people stuff.

Kind of liked this mod Lear jet so much better...its vinyl interior just a bit tacky.

We're an artsy off to the Belz Museum of Asian and Judaic Art at Peabody Place...simply stated...worth the entire trip.  If one is into Chinese art of lavishly and painstakingly carved jades, ivories, sculptures, paintings, ceramics, lacquer, textiles and fumerary, then this paradise will be heaven for you, as it was for us.

Next, the Brooks Museum of Art and their special exhibition which met with husband's hands down approval...Armed + Dangerous: Art of the Arsenal, about armaments for offensive and defensive; exploring evolution, function, and craft of weaponry and armor across time and continents.  The artistry craftsmen put into their creations in younger times was amazing...pure beauties of destruction.

So, here I am my computer screen...with a cup of strong coffee; cause, I have a lovely headache from THE JOB...a place of lies under newer lies under newest lies.  Frosty and foggy times have set in, although I think this weekend will be in the toasty 50's.  Eleven days this time with my the countdown's on for his next adventure home...just 164 days away...WHOOpeeeee.

There's a hole in my heart that will remain until we meet again.
Love you, sweet cheeks.

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