La Leche, Ass Wars, and Vodka... OH MY!

I'm back folks!! Sorry for my once again long absence. I've been on a year-long bender, but I've finally decided to add some extra-curricular activities to my already overwhelmed drinking schedule, which means... you guessed it... DRUNK BLOGGING!!

Here's some of what you missed in this year's episode of "C":

Tanner begins dating Veruca Salt, realizes he hates her as much as everyone else does, dumps her back off to her over-indulgent father and has now gone off to college in NM to meet a whole new fleet of Veruca Salts with which to torture his mother.

Brent moves out to his very own apartment to prove his independence but decides to move back for the free meatloaf and maid service.

Bonnie Belle develops a particularly nasty case of the fleas and wages a war against terror on her ass. It is mostly unsuccessful (unless you count the entertainment factor of a dog barking at her own ass) until Mom drops a smart-bomb on the back of her neck. Shazam!

Lily has another litter of kittens. Dismayed that we manage to find suitable adoptive parents for most of them Lily joins la leche and encourages her (now teen-aged) Schmitty-Kitty to continue nursing until she's too old to produce milk.

Cindi's computer comes down with a case of the African-fainting-goat-disease, passing out cold whenever it gets startled by sudden bursts of CPU usage. She visits the computer store but finds none in her price range of 12-years-same-as-cash.

Brittney turns 17 and, finally having no more need for her fainting couch, donates it to another hormonally imbalanced up-and-coming teen. The household breathes a collective sigh of relief and mom realizes she can finally stop drinking but curiously decides against such drastic measures.

Cindi turns 40 and discovers her ass crack has become an expansion joint. She orders Hip Hop Abs which seems like a good idea at 4am after downing a bottle of vodka, but soon realizes she is not, nor has ever been, hip. She's decided to stick with Richard Simmons because she can keep up with the fat people in his videos and doesn't fart with exertion when she tries to follow his dance moves.

Joe turns almost-50 and his body/mind begins to decompose. He walks around shouting at everyone to speak up and stop mumbling while looking for his reading glasses which he's once again placed in the vegetable crisper.

... And that's (just some of) what you missed on this years' episode of "C"!

It's hard to hang a spider when they have no neck!

Evil vicious spiders are at it again!!

I've been getting my house ready for Tanner's graduation party a little at a time as I have opportunity and great strides have been made recently, including the cleaning of our GIANT picture window in our kitchen. This is no small task so when it's finally done I'm always pleased at the fact that I can look out into our side-yard and see all the trees so clearly!

When I got up yesterday morning, however, and looked out the window, I was dismayed to see a giant spider web spun across the bottom left-hand corner. The offending party was nowhere in site, which is the only reason I felt comfortable in walking outside and knocking it down with the broom.

I was satisfied until last night. Returning home from a party, I once again discovered the offensive web, totally rebuilt (even larger this time) with the eight-legged terrorist situated squarely in the middle. I glared at him, even as I shuddered and I'm pretty sure he flipped me off with every one of his eight limbs.

This, of course, meant war so I grabbed the largest weapon I have: Joe.

"Go kill that rat bastard little smarty-pants spider who keeps messing up the window that I made you spend an hour cleaning yesterday!"

I didn't stick around to watch; war is an ugly business and I firmly believe it's better handled by less-squeamish individuals than women--particularly me, but he returned to the bedroom looking smugly victorious and I was satisfied.

Until this morning when I awoke to find and entirely NEW web on the top right-hand corner. Again, the culprit is nowhere in site. I sincerely hope he witnessed the execution-style demise of his closest neighbor and has relocated to a witness protection program, but just in case, I stuck this to the window, facing out:


You can't say he wasn't warned!

There's just nothing like a good cat hat...

Growing up, my dad had hunting dogs. Not just your normal, run-of-the-mill hunting dogs, mind you; these dogs were stupid unique. We always had two, although not always the same two. They were nothing more than yard decorations because they couldn't track worth a damn and instead of being his mighty helpers when he took them hunting, they instead saw it as more of a day off. He'd release them and they'd run off into the woods, relishing their freedom. After two hours of calling for them, my Dad would give up and drive home--only to find them sitting on the front door-step waiting for him.

Skipper once let a stray hunting dog move in with him. We called this dog Mooch, because he ate all Skipper's food and slept in his dog-house while poor Skipper would sleep on top of it because when my dad built the dog house he never considered the possibility of a room-mate and made it a bungalow. He apparently didn't realize the dog was gay, either, but with a name like Skipper, I think he must have at least suspected.

Skipper was also afraid of bees and hated green-beans like daddy-Bush hates broccoli. I don't care how well you stirred the green beans into the mashed potatoes and covered them all with gravy, the next day his food dish contained nothing but green beans, licked perfectly clean. It was kind of amazing how he did that, actually.

My current dog has some pretty quirky eating habits herself. We once bought her Beneful dog food in which some of the chunks were shaped like drumsticks. For whatever reason, Bonnie hated those particular pieces. She would pick them up in her mouth just long enough to wing them off to the side so she could better get to the non-drumstick shaped morsels.

You have to wonder how an animal that regularly licks it's own butt can be so picky about what it eats. Perhaps if we would have molded those pieces into a sculpture of her ass she would have then found them delectable.

Kewpie was one of my bizarre cats that I owned. She loved water. Absolutely loved it. She'd climb into the bathtub with me occasionally to lay on my chest in the water and she always played in the toilet. You could never sit on the toilet without first cleaning the seat because Kewpie always had toilet water splashed all over from her latest escapade. She also drooled when she was happy and foamed at the mouth when she was scared. Trips to the vet were a nightmare because by the time we got there she had so much frothy saliva hanging from her mouth that all the other pet-owners would immediately rush their animals to the other side of the room when we entered.

Kewpie hopped like a bunny when she ran and she loved to play with the wrappers from candy kisses that we'd roll into little foil balls. My mother loved candy kisses and always kept a supply in the small crock on her buffet table. Kewpie knew the clink of that lid being lifted and was immediately at your feet when you opened the crock. She wasn't allowed out after dark, so when she was being particularly bratty and hiding at dusk, we'd carry the crock out and clink the lid. Problem solved. She hated her curfew, but she'd give up her freedom for the promise of a little foil ball.

Snorkel was probably one of my favorite cats. He was my lover-boy and would leap from the ground into my open arms--at least until he got too fat to make it that far. In his later years he could only make it to my waist and finally, to my kneecaps. He loved shower-time because as I exited the shower, he'd leap into my arms. That cat just loved a good naked hug. He used to wrap himself around my head at night which was by far his favorite sleeping place. Joe used to wake me up by saying, "I see that you wore your cat-hat to bed..."

Snorkel used to answer the phone. When it rang, he'd leap up, knock it off the cradle and peer intensely into the receiver as he listened to people talk. Some of my friends who knew his little trick used to meow at him which probably didn't help matters. Whenever the answering machine was beeping he'd push the blinking button and listen to the messages which could have been useful if he had opposable thumbs and could take notes, but sadly, I missed a lot of messages. At some point Ed McMahon probably called to tell me I'd won $1M and my cat erased the message.

Then there was Maxie. Maxie-doodle was a beautiful black lab who was always startled by his own farts. He'd be laying on the floor, and when his back-end trumpeted, he'd whip his head around and stare at it, dumbfounded. He never got used to it, either. He was a smart dog, but he just didn't understand his ass.

Everyone always brags about how smart their animals are. I've never been blessed with smart animals, just crazy ones. Fortunately, I wouldn't have traded any of them for the world!

If I were to write a book....

Torette's Schmourette's

I have Tourettes syndrome, but not the fun kind, where you can yell, "Asshole!" when you see someone you dislike and then totally be like, "oh, I'm sorry, I have this mental conditon..."

I have a very special type of mental tourettes-- a mourette's if you will. It's like my inner child (a very petulant one at that) and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to control.

As I go about my daily life, and in the midst of conversations, words pop into my head. They have nothing to do with my actions or the conversations I'm participating in. They're just words.

Sesquipedalian. Fiduciary. Euphonious. Boulevardier. Convivial.

Sometimes the words actually have a theme. Arpeggio. Tarentella. Libretto. Syncopation. Sforzando.

Often, as the former, they do not.

If there were a name for my particular disorder, my mental diarrhea, I wonder what it would be. Lexicoconcordancitis? Repertoiryterminosis? Wow, just coming up with these new terms makes me all tingly in my special places.

Anybody who's ever really known me is aware that I've always walked a tightrope between sanity and absolute lunacy. I think my descention has begun. The proverbial fat lady has sung and that's all, folks.

I'd seek counselling, but I'm afraid I'd find the therapist to be: ingenuous, incredulous, inexorable...

Cin-full Readers

I recently signed up for Ad-sense, not because I figure I'll ever get rich from blogging, but just because I could. Ad-Sense puts "targeted" ads on your blog that they figure would appeal to your readers. Interestingly, these are the ads that were placed on mine this morning:

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Apparently they feel my blog readers are alcoholic mothers with computer viruses and poorly disguised mental illnesses who fall down at work a lot.

So if you're reading this, go you!!

Sweet and sour kitty

Free to a good Chinese Restaurant: One slightly bitchy, psychotic cat who likes to hide around corners and attack me for no apparent reason as I walk into rooms. Would also make a fabulous fur coat or skeet.

Contact Bonnie Belle