Chronicles of Madness

For a bit of calendar madness:

Izzy turns one years old today. In the past year he has chewed up my favorite nine west shoes, demolished my favorite gap sandals... that were five years old, but still, wtf?, eaten the Irishman's brand new H&M sandals (they were cheap, and he didn't care, so I got to laugh at someone else's misery, YES), chewed on my sunglasses and then watched amusedly while the Irishman accused me of munching on plastic (moron), peed on every bush/tree/stray piece of garbage/leaf he can find, and knocked a poodle down in order to grab it by the throat.

What in the world would I do without him?

Oh. I know. Buy less shoes.

(Did I mention that he also has a penchant for iPod headphones? The brat typically has expensive tastes... did those shoes come from Payless? Oh, he's way too good for them then. Pashaw)

Not to be left out, I have to mention that Tom Tom turned 14 in May. I've never known his exact birth date and so I settled for a randomly fair number, May 15th. Not that I celebrate it with a cake or anything. He's a fucking cat for crying out loud!

Have I mentioned before that not only is this cat FAT (14 pounds of solid pumpkin belly, this is no jelly massed Kelly Osbourne Mcfatty Fatty) he has attitude. And he's smart as a whip, always has been. In fact, when one of my friends from high school runs into me they always immediately ask, "Do you still have Tommy? Is he still a bastard?"

Well, duh. Of course.

He's funny.

I'm not quite sure what he thinks of the doggy beyond normal annoyance. Tommy's got this thing, he doesn't like things to move near or around him. It pisses him the fuck off. Frankly he just wants you to lay down and die, and if you do do that, could you please do it somewhere else, because your mere existence is causing his eye to twitch, which means soon your eye will be twitching... and covered with blood.

When Izzy comes into the house he immediately starts chasing Baby, I'm not sure if he's under some wierd sort of delusion where she likes to be chased, but he certainly seems happy doing it. So while Izzy's busy doing laps around the house Tommy always comes out to the hallway and sits up very straight and regal, watching the scene unfold, and then the moment Izzy runs past him Tommy sticks his claw right in his face.

Izzy jumps back and shakes his head, which is when Tommy scratches him right in the ass. Then, Izzy being apparently smart, runs away, except I live in a loft divided by a huge ass shelf, so when Izzy runs away all he really does is run in a circle around the house.

Not only is Tommy smart, but he's also fat and lazy. Does he chase Izzy? No. You want to know what my cat does? While Izzy is running for hell or highwater in a circle through the house my fat cat saunters over to the scratch post, sharpens his claws, and waits for Izzy to circle back.

This is Baby. She is so loveable I don't know how the fuck she ever got into my house. She's a fucking princess. Izzy and Tommy are as healthy as horses. They could get hit by a house and they'd still ride off on broomsticks. This little pampered bitch sits around cleaning herself all fucking day long AND get's sick. All the fucking time. She also never hisses, or scratches, or growls. Ever. Not even if you accidentally close her tail in the door, or step on her, or kick her in the face. It's like she's retarded.

In this picture she's sitting all pristine princess like in our hotel room in Boston. That's right, Boston, the little bitch even flew with us on the plane and went through security with us. Now you might ask, Terra, why in the fuck would you take a cat with you? Are you one of those fucking quacks from California who hugs trees and views their armhair as a sacred gift from God? And I'd have to tell you, No, she was SICK, because she's always SICK, and she was on antibiotics, and steroids, and before you knew it we were paying her cabin fee's and calling the hotel to inquire about their pet policy!

Jesus fucking christ.

Although, for the record, it was kind of nice. At night she cuddled up with me, and cat's are pretty low maintenance. We thought it was going to be a huge pain, but it really wasn't so bad.

Also, I think she is four, or five in some month between June and October. I really don't fucking know. I was going to write down that she was three years old, but then I realized I've been working here for three years, and I've had her longer. So now I can't figure it out. What can I say, I got her during my early 20's (I think) and so I can't really mark her arrival with any clear year. I wasn't in High School... so. Bleh. Fuck it. I'm old.

At the wine festival this old wrinkly bitch turns to me and does a double take and then says, "Excuse me, are you old enough to drink?"

"I'm 27"

"Oh my God! You barely look 18!"

Whatever, she needs to get her eyesight checked. It's August, I'm 27 in September, but I don't feel like being depressed so I'm doing it this month. It's part of my campaign against procrastination. O is three weeks older than I am and she's been telling everyone she's 27 since January. What an overachieving massochist.

In other news the Irishman and I have hit the six month mark. We've decided that if everything goes downhill from here there should be a car bomb somewhere in our near future.

Like tonight.

At seven.