Murderous Acid Flashback Kittens and TBI Bake Sales

Okay, let me begin by saying I am in the middle of a hellacious 2 week period. Between the two jobs, I don't get a sleep in day until Saturday the 6th of May. I open both days this weekend. *whine whine whimper whimper*. Why am I telling you this? Because I am an attention whore and want your sympathy, even if it is given under false pretenses.

Both of our cats are bat-shit crazy. No real surprise there, 99% of ALL cats are nucking futs, if you catch my meaning (I know, it wasn't the most subtle anagram). I do not know if I have mentioned their names yet, so I will now. We haev taken in two strays, an orange tabby named Leo, and a black and white mixed named Tuxedo. Leo is a boy, Tuxedo is a girl. I am now thoroughly convinced that Leo is in a permanent state of wake and bake. His eyes are always at least half closed and except for when he is plotting a way to escapr the house for a little alley catting, he moves as if the air is about 3 times thicker than it is. It is almost like it is taking a supreme effort to make it look effortless, and it shows. If he was fat and liked lasagna he could be Garfield. Not that those two things are the only requirements. Hell, I am fat, and I love lasagna. But I am not Garfield. although Wifey does treat me like I am Odie from time to time. But anyway, he is just James Dean with fur, but I have uncovered his hidden past. My cat was a trained assassin for the CIA. I am going to post a picture of him on a mission that will prove it.

As far as Tuxedo goes...well...she is just plain stupid. She is a crackhead. This morning she spent at least 30 minutes playing with a Cheerio that had apparently fell on the floor and missed sny previous attempts at cleaning. I say "at least" because the 30 minutes were before I left for work. She was still going strong while Wifey did her morning routine. For all I know she is still batting the damn thing around. Also, she has a habit of getting her claw stuck in things. When she goes to the furniture and/or the cushions and/or the bed, she invariably gets a claw stuck in it and will stand there for a while, trying in vain to figure out what the hell happened and how she can get free. Apparently "PULLING" is not an option. The best though, is when she is walking down the steps to the basement (where our bedroom is, as well as the bathroom, utility room, and the ever important litter box is. I have witnessed on more than one occasion where she gets her claw stuck in the carpeting as she is just walking down the stairs. She will stop on a step, for some reason a claw will pop out, and there she is completely stuck. And let us not forget when she will stop on the stairs because she suddenly has an overwhelimg desire to lick herself (hey, we all would if we could. Well, maybe not the butthole thing, but there are certain areas...maybe I have said too much), and she will then proceed to lick herself and then tumble down the stairs becuase she has lost her balance. Again, I have seen it 3 times. Who knows how often the dumbass actually does it. I work two jobs, Wifey has a full time job and is currently helping plan a summer camp, so neither one of us is home that much (and if you don't believe me, look in the sink. The dishes tell the story). I would not be surprised if Tuxedo rolls down the stairs 3-5 times a day. Maybe it is fun. But it HAS to cause brain damage, and from watching her in action, she ain't got a whole lot of wiggle room there.

Also, one more thing about Tuxedo. For about a month and a half, she has been stalking something in the house. At first we thought it was a mouse. But now I am convinced that there have been no mice since they moved in and chased one througfh the crawl space and into the ceiling of the basement, when they fell through and broke my nightstand. Even the MICE knew then that those damn cats were too damn crazy for them to hang out in the house. So if there is no mouse, what is she hunting? Currently the most plausible theory is that she is suffering from some some sort of Vietnam flashback. And yes she is only a year or so old. But with those 9 lives, you never know.

I have to get to the TBI Bake Sale, but before I do, let me note that it is currently 11:27 am on Wednesday April 26th, and JJ just walked in. And for the last 2.5 minutes (yes I am counting) she has been trying to figure out where her pencil is. "Where's my pencil? PEN-CILLLL? Phooey, I cannot find my pencil. I know I had it..." The word "pencil" has lost all meaning to me. It looks and sounds like a made up word. Also, whenever she says "therapy", it sounds like "thurpee", like a child with a lisp wants a frosty drink from 7-11. It doesn't matter what I rant about, she will be there like that annoying sound that Jeff Daniels and Jim Carrey made in Dumb and Dumber, only more constant.

Now, on to the Bake Sale. Well, it isn't really a Bake Sale. TBI (which stands for Traumatic Brain Injury) is a department here at the hospital. From the overhead announcement (which sounds more than vaguely like it is used as a training ground for the people who make announcements for Amtrak and Light Rail. Not quite Peanut's adults, but awful damn close), I heard that TBI is doing "something" in the Grand Hall. Refreshments will be served and it seems they will be selling something. But from the way the announcement wa worded, it will be the TBI patients doing the selling. And since my brain is immediately drawn to the bizarre outcome, I just keep seeing people with bandages and gauze wrapped around their heads intermingling with the extras from "One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest", trying to haggle with me for a trinket. And if I can't out-haggle a guy who thinks he is Napoleon or a lady who calls everybody "Fred" and then gives them BIG hugs, well, I am not the negotiator I think I am. Honestly, I don't think that is how the shindig is going to shake down, but you have to admit that it is a funny visual. Powder blue pajamas, hospital issue slippers, and what can only be described as a hospital turban trying to make a deal with you on the price of a cherry pie.

BSR