O. Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying

Dear MF Diary, what a weekend. I don’t know what happened to me exactly. On Sunday morning I slept and slept and slept, which is not really like me. Years ago, after having Franny, I grudgingly left the world of the Night People (secret handshake, O my brothers and sisters), to become a chronically sleep-deprived morning person. So in that time I have learned to haul my ass out of bed with the little birdies, cheerfully make one or more persons breakfast that they will throw on the floor (or complain about and dawdle over until it gets too cold to eat), and get more done before noon than most people my age, who themselves are probably waking up around three on Sundays and petting their collections of expensive poisonous fragile things.

I have two things to say about this: A. By the time these people decide that they are tired of having collections of expensive poisonous fragile things, and get around to getting married, and then, wouldn’t it be nice to have some children, I will be booting my own children out and saying, “Bye-bye! Have fun storming the castle!” 2. On the other hand, motherhumping sunrises are overrated.

I am complicated. I am still a mystery to you.

But the summary of this pointless story is that Companion exploded into our room at eleven. “Do you want some lunch?”

Yes, I would like some lunch. How about your liver versus a nice Chianti? Morning people have no understanding for those of us who are recovering night people entitled to occasional relapses. I mean, damn.

M. Tooths

So I feel I should tell you that our last weekend with Franny was pretty stellar. She is still complaining about how neglected she is over at her dad’s house because of the New Baby, and whined her way out the door on our last morning. I am not about to call her dad up and say what up in regards to this. I am trying to empower her to speak up for herself. I have encouraged her to speak with him, or to stay here longer. She knows she can stay with me as long as she wants, but she needs to have that convo with her dad herself. I’ll smother that lil’ Pootypants with attention all month long, if she wants. I like her. Even more so now that she seems to have inherited my special bizarreness.

Exhibit A: Bacon tongue. “Ook, Om, Ah av a akin ung!”

She lost her second tooth!

We went out for celebratory ice cream sundaes. Here is Companion, holding the be-sprouted Strudel:

Doesn’t he look like Scott Baio with all that hair?

Joanie Loves Chachi, But Chachi Does Not Love Getting His Hair Cut.

Waiting for ice cream impatiently:

“You know,” whispered my friend Whippet, after Franny showed her and her kids her lost tooth, which resides in a special tooth box that came all the way from India, “the Tooth Fairy is actually cheaper than your way.”

“Well, Whippet,” I said, “I am trying to discourage my children from selling their body parts.” Snap, snap, neckroll.

Troodle conked on the way home:

G. More About Whippet

I shouldn’t be too hard on Whippet, because she means well and has no filter, so I always have to be prepared for anything. She walked by my house this morning after ditching her kids at school and I popped my head out of my upstairs window to say hello and complain about the fact that I was cleaning.

She promptly gave me some loud TMI about her sex life, projecting her voice up to my second-storey window and all over my block. Well, if she’s not shy then there was no reason for me to be embarrassed, am I right? I kind of feel sorry for our neighbors sometimes, who are quiet, polite people from South Korea. I don’t know a ton about Korean culture, but I’m guessing people don’t shout about sex with their husbands in the street there. It’s just a feeling I get.

They just had a baby a month ago and probably get annoyed when Companion and I pinch each other and yelp as we run up and down the stairs. And now Whippet shouting up at me about her sex life. I tried to get her to come out to coffee, so we could have a less-shouty conversation, but she had an appointment. So it was a shout-and-run.

Z. Free Kittems!

Free kittems? FREE KITTEMS? Yes, please.

Oh, wait. Kittens? Well, alright. We’ll have one of those instead.

A stripey little guy was in a box outside our local grocery store, being minded by a nine-year-old boy who informed us that they were “born on April Fools’ Day.” There were only two in the litter, and ours was being called “Joker,” and his brother, a handsome tuxedo cat, was called “Jessica.” Boy, I am glad we didn’t take that cat, because he is going to have PROBLEMS. Jessica. Man, it takes ten seconds to flip those things over and check, you know.

Anyway, we got the very handsome tabby boy. Meet Captain Vimes.

We are calling him “Vimes,” “Vimesy,” or “The Cap’n.” I imagine we’ll save his full title for more formal occasions.

Nietzsche, our resident grump, is, well, grumped. Now if I just look at her, she growls at me. “You son of a bitch,” she says. “Just when I was looking forward to retiring in peace.” She’ll get over it. And everyone knows that cats go better in pairs.