THE DOUBLESTUFFS: Farewell Tour!

ONE WEEK OF PERFORMANCES REMAIN UNTIL THE BAND BREAKS UP!

But don't fret- while the privilege of living inside an episode of "Animal Planet: The Fall of  Recliners" will be no more for Audra, you -- yes, you -- now have the opportunity to take a band member home and goggle FOREVER at how every poop they produce is three quarters the length of their body. 

(Representing agency is Richmond Animal Care and Control; Audra can forward all inquiries)

AND NOW- SOME UPDATED BIOS!!!

1. Gidget:

Hey! I'm smiling. I do that. Audra thinks it's weird and suspicious. Part of why I'm smiling is likely because I'm cupping my brother's butt. I've long overcome the stigma of having an off-center toupee and now embrace and advocate for everything I am. One of those things is a member of Pantsuit Nation. I will without fail scale your ankle, shin, crotch, and chest until I hook my front claws into your clavicle and declare at full voice any opinion I am strongly holding at the moment. I fancy myself real slick at approaching Audra's meals from "unexpected angles." But in reality I'm terrible at that and am slowly accepting defeat. (Chances lower daily that this animal turns out to be a rabbit.)

2. Fezziwig:

Yep. It's me. Still the only one who agrees to participate in hat-wearing or any other sort of nonsense Audra is always promoting. I'm extremely lanky and a little salty about it because it's starting to seem like the only thing I'm going to be suited for is the NBA. The oddest thing about me is that I photograph like a total badass but in reality, all I want is to be cuddled and close to Audra. She tosses me on the floor a lot, though, so I'm open to new consorts. My name is now Fezziwig because Janine suggested "Fez" but that didn't prove quite strident enough for Audra to yell. There is a perfect black circle on my tummy where a human navel would be. If that matters. 

3. Pickles?

This is the best photo ever taken of me. And not just because of the perfect rosette of my genitals. I am a boy. I'm not sure what my name is. But it needs to be something involving boogers because my sole purpose in life is to wake Audra up every morning by trotting up her torso and devoting myself to a rigorous and toothed extraction of any wayward snot wads she may have developed overnight. I try not to hurt her, and give her occasional breaks from the excavation by pressing my face into her ear and purring as hard as I can. I find the rough-housing of my siblings to be amusing, but beneath me. I indulge. I need to rest anyway, because COME HELL OR HIGH FLORENCE I WILL be in the bathroom every time Audra goes in there. I come highly recommended. And not just 'cause I'm a black cat and no one seems to want those. (He's actually the sweetest.)

4. THUD:

My name is THUD. Short for Thuddeus. So named because every time I indulge in my favorite pastime of falling off the couch, Audra anticipates an eviction notice. This photo exists because this morning I woke up, hopped onto the couch, and sat like this for over five minutes. Just staring at Audra. I think I knew I needed a decent headshot to get adopted. That, or my thumbnail being stuck in Audra's basketball shorts prohibited my leaving. I am solid as a rock and have huge chubby white paws. I know FULL WELL that I am not supposed to chew on the cord of Audra's rubber dolphin lamp. So I don't. I jut swat it once and then sit beside it waiting for her to hear me and come toss me on the floor. Which works out because that's ultimately my favorite thing anyway.

5. Stewie:

Hello. (Please hear all else in the voice of Stewie Griffin.) You should mind your own business, but since you're here and STARING AT ME, you may as well know that I only grow sideways in my head and roundways in my gut. Stature: short. Don't pick me up and expect me to sit in your lap and coddle you, you needy human. I'm just waiting for the government to fetch me and begin my responsibility of saving the world. Maggie really likes me. But she's never MET me. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA. And don't think you're snatching any kibble from my while I rest. I sleep embracing the food dish. I'm all over you. I don't even know why I agreed to be featured in this post. Bugger off.

SO,  come and get 'em. They'll be avay through Richmond Animal Care & Control a week from today. After you've adopted one, you're invited to stop by my funeral because chances are slim I'll live through the week. 

The Doublestuffs!

"The DoubleStuffs: A Pussy Spectacular!"

Act I: Audra's Bathroom
Act II: Audra's Bathroom

Producer: Richmond Animal Care & Control
Stage Manager: Audra Honaker
Costumer: God

1. Gidget (All Female Roles):

Gidget has worked extensively on the Richmond regional theater circuit. Primarily covering melodramatic high soprano sidekick roles, she is eager to hopefully perform her first lead in the near future as someone's house cat, of all things. Having spent her formative hours working to overcome the perceived shortcoming of appearing to wear a toupee (thanks a lot, Adam Dorland), Gidget occasionally acts out by vocalizing when it's entirely inappropriate but overall, is a fine cast mate. She harbors hopes of becoming a writer one day- as evidenced by her routine jigs across Audra's computer keyboard. (Gidget's understudy will be on tonight as a result of an unfortunate accident wherein Gidget fell a great and mysteriously forceful distance after dislocating the Caps Lock key.)
2. Gadget (Understudy to the Male Lead):

Gadget comes to us fresh off a stint of looking exactly like his sister. With a lower hairline. Audiences love him for his perpetually dirty nose, apparent even after eating dry food, which Audra really doesn't want to know any more about. Gadget was down to the wire for the male lead, but lost the role due to his proclivity for being buried in the food bowl any time rehearsals were starting. Admirably full-figured, he hopes to captain the city's first kitten burlesque squad.
3. Gasket (The Villain):

Typecast due to his rakish good looks, Gasket is familiar with his role. Having first made a splash with audiences due to his unprecedented vertical white moustache, he has taken the theater world by storm. Growing tired of run after endless Broadway run, Gasket is pleased to be trying his hand on the touring circuit and is excited to explore RVA in this, the national premiere of "The DoubleStuffs: A Pussy Spectacular!"  Recent tabloid reports that Gadget's dusky foot pads indicate a less that cleanly lifestyle hold no water, Gadget avers. He was born this way! (Audra gets out the Palmolive....)
4. Grommet:

A cat. Nothing to be done.
5. Gimlet* (Male lead):

It's an honor, truly, for RVA that Gimlet has deigned to appear on our stages. A legend long before his time began 4 weeks ago, tales of Gimlet's prowess stalk stages everywhere. His ebony coat; his gravitas; his smoldering blue eyes coated lightly at the corners with a film of salmon pate. Audra does not know how to make an accent mark. This tour marks the first time Gimlet has required an understudy. This is due NOT to any shortcoming of talent but rather to an unfortunate and (so he claims) entirely involuntary tendency to empty his bowels anywhere onstage but DEFINITELY NOT IN THE LITTER BOX.

WE HOPE YOU ENJOY THE SHOW! Anyone interested in housing actors should contact Richmond Animal Care & Control. Or Audra, and she'll give you the info.
*Gimlet appears backlit courtesy of AEA.

Audra & The New Neighbor

I hate cats. Following a recent stint of fostering kittens, I have been reminded yet again that they're nasty, dirty, spiny, loud creatures who think nothing of hooking their talons into your cuticle beds to haul themselves onto the couch. This morning I emailed the lady in charge of foster care at the animal shelter to let her know that I needed to drop off nasty biscuits #8 and #9 of the summer as I am going to be out of town the rest of the week. Immediately I receive an out of office email. I grumpily cover back up with my blue blanket and try to figure out who I can convince to come over and tend to kittens for the rest of the week.
I fall asleep because I have been up since 3AM watching BBC comedy clips on YouTube. I awaken at 1:38PM to an email from aforementioned foster care coordinator saying that she is indeed out of the office but that if I can get the girls to the shelter by 3PM, someone would be there to dispose of them.
I spring off the couch, stuff the kittens into their carrier, slide on my prized $2.98 yellow flip-flops from Walmart purchased especially for my camping trip back in May and hustle off to the car. I do not bother to brush my hair or apply a bra, as the staff at the animal shelter are all lovely people and completely accepting of me as is.
Kittens deposited and free of parental duties, I sail off to the movie theater because I have the afternoon off and I really want to see that movie "Three Identical Strangers" about those triplets who were separated at birth. I treat myself to a giant bag of Sour Patch Kids and sit, as I am wont to do, hermitishly in the back row alone with my backpack occupying the seat beside me and my arm slung over the back of the chair on my other side to make it seem as though I am reserving it for someone. I eat my kids, glare menacingly at other patrons who enter and make even a whisper of a move toward my row.
The movie is quite good. I was best friends with a set of twins in middle school and have always found the concept fascinating. Both of them had a knack for wearing ladies plain white Keds extremely well. I always tried to match their skill level, but never quite pulled it off.
I drive home, find a lovely parking spot, and in strolling down the sidewalk by my building, glance into the window of the downstairs apartment. The previous tenant moved out a couple of months ago. I know that because one day the garish twiggy wreath complete with green burlap ribbons and giant carved wooden "M" bedecking the front door was gone. So she'd either moved out or finally realized how rude it is to hog the whole front door of a building of which you are not the only occupant with a tacky wreath featuring your- and only your- first initial.
I've been peeping in the window for the past month to see if anyone had moved in. Last week, I noticed some bamboo plants and....some guitars. So I got pretty excited. After all, I have a bamboo plant. And a brother who plays the guitar. But I'd yet to see the new tenant.
Today though, as I walk in the main, and blessedly wreathless, door to the building, the door to the apartment in question creaks open. I smile. This has happened twice before. With the past two tenants. This is where I get to play benevolent, street-smart, lady of the city and inform the new tenant that they must slam their door completely else the vacuum effect created by the main door of the building opening into the foyer will cause their front door to pop open as well.
I knock.
Immediately the door is swung wide. Inside, smiling at me, is a very, very cute and tanned man person struggling to put his t-shirt on.
"Hi! I'm Matt!" He says.
Great, I think. Who that I know ISN'T named Matt. I'll have to carefully consider whether or not there's room for him on the roster.
"I'm Audra," I say. "I'm glad to meet you finally."
I then use a phrase I've always wanted to use but never had occasion- I say: "Pro tip- you have to make sure your door is shut very tight or else it'll pop open when the front door gets opened."
"Vacuum effect?" He says.
"Yes." I say.
He continues smiling at me. Then- "You'll have to forgive me, I've just realized I've got my shirt on backward."
"No problem, I say." (I instantly remember that I am clad in my favorite 6-year-old paint stained summer camp t-shirt, that I am wearing no bra, my Monster energy drink cap, and my Walmart flip-flops-which by the way have broken hours earlier in the movie theater and are hanging on by a thong and a thread. I am proud to be wearing my Idaho sweatpants, however. If you don't appreciate those, then who cares what you think.) I gather my thoughts.
"I've been wondering who moved in down here," I continue. "I noticed you have lots of plants AND guitars." He pauses in the act of twisting his t-shirt around and my eyes widen. There's no way I could see his guitars from this vantage point, so now he surely realizes I've been peering in his windows. Whatever, I'm not creepy.
He seems to deem me safe and continues smiling. "Would you like to come in and see the unit?"
I snicker. And enter the apartment. I've long been nosy.
There's a large red couch. I like that. An oriental carpet. Not as cool as my $10 glittery rag rug from Ross Dress for Less. A table littered with bags and stuff and a figurine I can't identify. Books. Oh good.
"You have books." I say. "That's good." At this point I've mostly forgotten about the guy and am just satisfying my curiosity. He gestures for me to enter the kitchen, having finally unwound his arms from the innards of his t-shirt.
And here is where I think I started to make him nervous.
"Is that a washer or dryer?" I grind out. He turns to me, smiling (surprise, surprise), and says, "It's actually a combination of both!"
INFURIATING. My apartment does not have this. I want my apartment to have this. I've always thought since the Pilgrims built this building that it wasn't able to support such things, but now!
"Oh, I'm gonna write I strongly worded email to management!" I announce. I spin on my heel to stride smartly out of the kitchen and.....my thong snaps. (The one on my shoe.) I turn back to face Matt XIV and bend down. I pick up the now worthless wedge of yellow foam. I say, "My shoe broke. Earlier." He.......smiles.
I head back for the door, clutching my shoe. I am thinking I am sure this has made quite an impression. The quality of which I may not want to know. But before I can exit gracefully, I am stopped in my tracks by the appearance of another apartment item which leaves me speechless. I turn to Matt XIV.
"Did you paint your radiator? IS THAT A BLACK RADIATOR? That is VERY COOL." I'm probably panting and foaming at the mouth. His smile has begun to waver. "No- I didn't paint it. It.....was like that...when I got here."
"I see," I say. "Well, that's TWO things I'm going to mention in my strongly worded letter!"
He opens the door for me. I am reminded suddenly that I'm sure my breath smells like Sour Patch Kids and that my hair could snare a yak. AND THAT I'M NOT WEARING A BRA. I bound across the hall to my door and disappear through it.
I think I might tape a note to his door tomorrow. It will not be strongly worded. But he will probably have moved out.

Pamplemousse & The Great Refusal to Participate in Household Upkeep of 2018

For anyone interested in taking this little critter to your bosom, key notes:

1. We have the stomach capacity of a sparrow. We are somehow naturally disposed to the "six small sensible meals a day" philosophy. Which is mostly notable because the last batch of kittens- and every other cat I've encountered in my life, come to think of it- subscribes more to the "if I could unscrew my head and program a fire hose to pump all the cat food in the continental U.S. directly into my stomach and keep going until I vomit, that'd be great" school of thought.
2. We are dainty and fine-boned. Lissome, even. Long spindly legs. Should probably actually be named Metabolism. I feel his bone density to be on par with that of a Ritz Cracker.
3. We do absolutely nothing around the house to contribute while Audra is at work. Nothing. We cannot even be bothered to finish our dish of Fish Sphincter Surprise* which Audra has kindly left out for us to nosh on throughout the day.
4. We might have a fetish for eye ointment. We get suspiciously into having our lids pried open and oily medicinal lube being slickly applied over the surface of our eyeball.
5. Our pinkeye is all gone. So we're really going to be bent out of shape that 4. is off the table.
6. We enjoy posing in front of stacks of books.
7. We are now able to climb onto the sofa. But be forewarned- if this happens while Audra is asleep she will be jolted awake immediately. Because when we do this, we sound like a buttered ferret scaling a piece of sheet metal.
8. We like to take breaks during snacks to check in with Audra for a moment of cuddling.
9. Napping: This is how we do it:

I exhaled directly into his ear for ten minutes and he slept on soundly. So, really into aggressive white noise.
10.We are the sweetest and gentlest of all kittens so far. In the history of time. We'd be a good choice.
*credit Catherine Shaffner

The Tao of Pamplemousse

Hi. I'm new. I'm currently woozy and half-blind from pink-eye ointment.
But I am obviously very wise:

It is he with leg bones of fish ribs who jumps the highest.
The palest foot pads often lead to the splinteriest of hardwood floors.
The radiator radiates not only warmth, but safe haven.
Imbed yourself in the undercarriage of recliners, for in that way, you imbed yourself in the undercarriage of humanity.
The mostly hairless, partially fabric covered upright cat who feeds you-though her pats incite your purr-should she depart your presence for any span of time-take care to regard her as a complete stranger and panic should she return.
Short-term memory is overrated.
Worthy is the towel that is not the one you were given to sit on.
It is only behind one's refrigerator that one finds one's true destiny.
Assuming the mantle of martyr upon pinning yourself betwixt the radiator and the cold tile wall will not elicit the reaction you expect.

Go in peace. And remember to panic whenever you see Audra.

AVERAGE RIDDANCE

One less cat to step on.

One less towel to boil.

One less poop that looks like tootpaste.

....I don't know the rest of the lyrics, but for those of you with musical theater backgrounds, this should ring true.

I got rid of my children.

I knew this day was coming. I even knew it was today. At least I was going to try for it to be today. If they're two pounds, they're adoptable, all that. You know.

I arrive home this morning from fetching some organic bouquets at a farmer's market at some church from a woman with vocal fry. And from fetching a child-sized Star Trek massage chair from a cul-de-sac in Midlothian with my brother.

I walk into my apartment determined to begin kitten disposal and see Roland snuggling on my shoe. My favorite shoe-- what TASTE he has. Mr. Marianne trots up- I can hear him purring a mile away. Mr. Pearl is nowhere to be seen, but that's par for the course recently and it doesn't matter because I love him. Dust is seated, immobile as always, beneath the coffee table and gazing at me with fathomless and soulful close-set eyes. 

I think, hmm. I really like at least two of these. But this always happens. I just need mental reinforcement. So I message my group of besties on FB. Mr. Paul immediately responds, "You can't take them anywhere. AND THEY POOP." 

My qualms quieted at once by the veracity of his message, I decide to nap and then take the children to the shelter. But, I think, I'll use the bathroom first. To ensure the quality of my nap. I enter the restroom. As usual, all four kittens station themselves on my feet and stare up at me while I take care of business. I pat each head in succession. Deliver some kind words. I get to Roland and realize he is COVERED IN POOP from his right cheek to his right.....other cheek. WHAT HAS BEEN GOING ON? That settles it. I'm done. I snatch him up and run some warm water over him. Scrub him with lavender snowman soap from last Christmas and toss him into the cat carrier. I round up everyone else, trying to remain calm in the face of such a pooptastrophe. We drive to animal control. We are received with glee and everyone is relinquished to the hands of- well, I don't care who takes them as long as there are no more poop immersion exercises in my bathroom.

Having said that- there are EXCELLENT folks standing by to take these creatures home. I'm very excited about that, and look forward to detailed reports. Meanwhile- the promised obits:

1. Roland:

Roland was a good cat. Everyone who met him was impressed by his distinctive eye/jawbrows. Always a poser- he never met a lens he didn't like. Meticulous bather. Floppy sleeper. Occasional poop soaker. Going to live with one Maggie McGrann. Maggie is a wonderful, beautiful, artistic woman who has already given Roland 3 additional last names which are all in French. I'm sure he won't notice. But I do hope she starts him on cigars very soon.
2. Dust:

Dust. A majestic specimen. Aloof and haughty, I never knew if she merely tolerated my cuddles or sought them. Observant. She will be missed. But I've zero doubt of her happy life to come with Marcia Hailey. Marcia snatched Dust out of the shelter less than two hours after I deposited her there. Dust had no real feelings for her brothers, so I do not forsee any issues adjusting to her new digs.
3. Mr. Marianne:

Already dead. Too late for an obit.
4. Mr. Pearl:

Oh, Mr. Pearl. Do not breathe a word of this, but I miss Mr. Pearl. He had the ideal fat feet. Floppy, cross-eyed, malleable. Unaware of most things. I might've loved him. But I take solace in the fact that he and the ghost of Mr. Marianne are slated to go and live with a very charming and zany man I met at a law firm once upon a time named John. I feel very confident about this because I was fond of John years ago when I met him, but then he sent me the list of his potential new names for Mr. Marianne and Mr. Pearl (upon penile discovery) and they include things like "Baal: Lord of Destruction." So I am FULLY on board and eager to see what develops. 

*That said, should Mr. Pearl wreak too much havoc, call me first.
There we have it. Batch complete. 

KITTEN UPDATE: We're SO Close.

It's the final stages. The way I figure it, I'm 4 over-feedings away from having these puffy creeps out of my life forever. Though Mr. Pearl is starting to grow on me. Just in case they're gone tomorrow, I thought I'd go ahead and write what may be the final update in this journey that has been Kitten, Bat, & Penis Development 101.
1. Mr. Pearl:

I. Mean. Just look at him. The fact that he sprouted a penis and that his name sounds eerily similar to Mr. Paul- one of my favorite humans- is making me feel.....attached? Maybe I shouldn't go that far. The second he assaults one of my Care Bears it's OVER. But he's very dear. There's always one kitten per batch that makes me start to wonder...."Does it need me? Will it be sad without me?" It won't. Mr. Pearl probably can't tell me apart from shower curtain, eyes being crossed as they are, and will be equally daffy and content anywhere in the world. But. If Mr. Pearl begins demonstrating problematic behavior, I'm happy to take over.
2. Mr. Marianne:

Still a bat. Potentially Satan. Is somehow the heaviest kitten. Which is surprising given the fact that he's balding from the eyebrows up. Secretly the softest. Occasionally hears voices. I watched him stand on a chair yesterday for three minutes having panicked reactions to absolutely nothing.
3. Dust:

Photogenic. Indifferent. Immobile. OVER EVERYTHING. An older woman, I think. Does very dramatic sleeping- see below:

That box was my Care Bear coffin. Which is a whole other story, but suffice to say, IT IS NO LONGER MINE FOR ANY USE. Dust loves sleeping in this box. In the first photo, she's pretending to be dead for dramatic effect, and in the bottom one, she's FAST ASLEEP and so determined to be in that box that her eyelid has been pinned open for 10 minutes and she doesn't care. So we'll have to have that eyeball removed.
4. Roland:

POSES for me. Hits it; holds it. He is photographed here upon his favorite rug with a 2 lb. weight I found in my room which I've been using to weigh the kittens. Sleeps most of the time. Is very excited to meet his new mother, Maggie McGrann.
So that's that. Perhaps. If they keep spinning around here like blenders on roids it may take longer than I'm expecting for them to get up to 2 pounds. In that case, another photo shoot may occur. If not, obituaries will be posted on this blog and in lieu of flowers, please send power washers.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Update: NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS

Pearl has a penis.
I'll give you a second.
Now that you've recovered, I'll explain. I took the little fluff squirts in on Saturday for their "shots." I put this in quotes because I don't know what actually goes one in the back room after they take the cage of kittens away from me. The deal is: the kittens are not allowed their "shots" until they each weigh one pound. When I took them in two weeks ago, they fell short. The animal shelter staff was both shocked and impressed Saturday to discover they were closing in on two.
Don't think for a second that I'm not super into producing chubby baby animals, you animal shelter staff.
But then I asked the question. The question whose answer has rocked the very foundations of all I've been living and believing for the past three weeks- "Are we sure these are three girls and one boy?"
Read on. If you think you can handle the truth.
1. Roland:

When I stated earlier that nothing is as at seems, I didn't mean Roland. Roland remains EXACTLY as he seems. Darling, cuddly, and dim. I grow fonder every day of his matching eye and jawbrows. His eyes aren't going to be blue, it appears, but he makes up for this by devoting hours every day to perfecting the art of balancing regally in silhouette atop the armchair. (He's not nailing it.) He also debuted his meow for the first time this week and it became immediately clear that he's a three-pack-a-day kind of guy. When I first heard it, I thought they had been out of water for too long, for what else could result in that kind of gravelly growl. Nope. Another possibility is that he's been snacking on kitty litter. Eating in bed- he likes to nap in his toilet. I'll keep you posted.

2. Marianne:                                                                                                                                              

HAS A PENIS. Which is not to say I'm changing his name. All beings, shockingly unphotogenic kittens included, deserve the right to their own gender identity. Marianne is pictured above with his favorite power strip. Which he unplugs every night without fail so that I wake up each day to zero functioning electronics. I don't see the attraction. But we do not choose where we will love. Aesthetically, well, see above. But- Marianne's coat could go for millions at Christie's. Jet black with milk chocolate colored circles along the sides. If he ever once were still, I'd spend a lot of time petting him. His sides, anyway. That face is like caressing a speed bump. In the interest of full disclosure, it should be reported that he tried to suck on my earlobe this morning. Wasn't sexy.

3. Pearl:

HAS A PENIS. And has been submitting his new headshot for every production of "Hamlet" he can find. At first I thought it was for "Agnes of God" or something equally dramatic for the ladies. But then came the fateful crotch check. Still cross-eyed; don't let the photo deceive you. Though I've been staring at him a lot and I think there's a chance he only looks cross-eyed due to an overdeveloped right upper inner eyelid. Loves to purr. Part of my agenda is to apply Neosporin to his.....PENIS......in an attempt to dissaude his sister from snacking on it every chance she gets. Only topical ointments in the house right now are mustard and rose-scented cuticle cream, however, and I don't want to make things worse.
4. Dust:

I feel that a lot of the reason Dust always bears this expression is explained by the Triple Penis Surpise. Ever alarmed and immobile, Dust holds her own. Mostly by sitting on shelves her brothers have yet to notice and pretending to be a figurine. Dust is the lone kitten able to navigate the stairs, and so will soon be the lone kitten I send out for coffee.
They're big enough now to make me sneeze, so it's a great thing that I'm only a half pound away from shipping them out. Bubble-wrapped, of course.
Who wants seconds?

"THERE WILL BE NO BUTT SUCKING!"

.....were the first words out of my mouth this morning. So I thought I should probably write that down.

I'm snuggled deeply into my couch, sleeping peacefully with my new fantastic $2 Walmart camping pillow. Small noises seep suddenly into my consciousness. Curious noises. I've never heard such noises. Curious enough- I open my eyes. 

There they are. Innocently playing on my best neon rag rug from Ross Dress For Less. The two grey kittens. Twin sisters. Just being sisters- goofing off, playing with each other's hair, sucking each other's butts. 

ABSOLUTELY NOT. 

I break it up immediately. Somewhat shaken, I return to the couch. I gaze out my window and harken back to the time 9 years ago when an occasion very similar to this resulted in the cat currently living at my parent's house being named Suprise!

*Suprise is spelled this way purposely. No one pronounces that first "r." Why waste the finger energy to type it.

Anyway. I went camping over the weekend and came home to four very different animals from the ones I left. So for anyone who's following the updates, here you are:

1. Dust-

Dust remains adorable. She does lots of contemplative sitting on hardwood far across the room. Which forces me to zoom in for photo shoots. I'm not sure she has the same feelings for me I have for her. But, as I am unable to resist any spherical creature, I'll continue to adore her from across the room. She may be rehearsing to be a calendar girl. Dust is the party responsible for the unspeakable act which inspired the title of this blog, and as such, is about to enter a week-long period of extremely intense training which may result in her looking a bit different in next week's update. No one told me I couldn't shave them, after all. The sanity of Pearl's genitals is at stake, for God's sake. 

2. Roland-

This is a photo of Roland just after I arrested him this morning for being too cute. He'll just sit like that. As long as I want him to. You can pose him. A born superkittenmodel. Brain development remains questionable. He has extremely lengthy eyebrows. I know two other very excellent men with such eyebrows. Pleased to have met a third. I will say for Roland that his self-bathing skills are killer. You don't get your whites that white without considerable effort.

3. Marianne-

Marianne is....doing well? I think I mentioned in an earlier post her affection for "Breaking Bad." She sat immobile on my sternum for the entirety of the pilot episode last week. Riveted to the screen. Now she's displaying an affinity for napping in and around electronics. I think she's smart- potentially an evil genius. Doesn't talk a lot. Can win any staring contest. Has a perpetually dirty face. Dirty and crusty, somehow. I'm allowing myself to assume it's from wet cat food. But I can't be held accountable for what's behind the couch. 

4. Pearl-

I.....think that about says it all.

Parts of her dazed and confused delirium might be a result of the aforementioned title event. We'll see how we look next week.

A hearty and well-deserved congratulations to Adam Dorland for keeping them alive over the weekend. 

Though we may all live to regret it.

If You're Pet-Sitting...

(This got emailed to Adam Dorland this morning- who is a saintly man.)

My pet-sitting instruction missive. I'll also call you. But where I'm going in Pennsylvania, I may not have reception, or toilet paper, so if one of their heads falls off, I wanted you to know which trash can to put it in.

Yesterday when I went to rehearsal I said to them, "This is a test. I'm not locking you in the bathroom. If I come home and anyone is electrocuted from chewing on wires, heads will roll." Which in retrospect I realize is redundant, but they did a very good job and so they are allowed free run of the house with the exception of my bedroom. I've shut that door. Everything in my life I value -like my horse figurines and throw pillows- is in there. The kittens are starting to climb, you see.

There's a very gross looking towel on the floor in front of my important trunk. It's not gross from poop or vomit- do not panic- it's old congealed food. I just am waiting til they're gone to wash it because futile.

When you arrive, I recommend for your sanity stuffing them all into the bathroom while you prepare food. Mostly so you won't step on and kill any of them. Because knowing you, you'd feel badly. The food is on my cereal shelf by the fridge. Help yourself to the human baby food- I'm not using it. There are two tiny tupperwares by the sink. Into each put half a can of wet food and like, a handful of the dry kitten chow (yellow bag- picky baby fuckers can't handle adult dry cat food yet- wussy teeth/pain in my ass cause the green store doesn't carry dry kitten food). Is spoon in sink. Stir. Ish. Put 'em down on gross towel and then crack the bathroom door. Squat down and prepare to receive the first two out and block the others. Good luck. Should be an Olympic event. Whoever makes it out first (and pro tip- if you can get both gray ones at once that's probably better until you can learn to tell them apart. Just so Pearl doesn't get double food and become even more monstrous/so Dust doesn't get thin and un-cute) put 'em on the towel. They know what to do. When those 2 are done, reseal them in the bathroom and get the other ones out. Repeat. Then release everyone from their chamber.

*There is also one small tupperware in the bathroom into which I put water. I don't know if they drink it. But I don't want to be taken to court for neglect.

They have 2 litter boxes because a. I'm generous and a good kitten caretaker, or b. I'm lazy and didn't want to scoop every day. They are very talented at using them. Extra is in the giant bag that's too heavy for me to carry by the toilet. (Please help yourself to the human toilet, btw.) But as long as you scoop it once a day, you shouldn't need to replenish. The litter, not the human toilet.

There's a tiny roll of Mr. Paul's favorite color poop bags on the window sill. Scoop is propped up by the radiator. It's gross--again--futile. Dumpster is behind the building, so if you don't mind, when you leave, just toss in there. That will save me burning down my apartment. 

HELP YOURSELF to staying and playing and WHATEVER YOU WANT. I believe there are 2 expired chicken breasts in the freezer and the dregs of some Frosted Flakes guarding the corridor beside the fridge. 

They are good kittens, so far, and really just love playing with each other and purring beside your neck. They like to go behind the couch and stay in the corner by the radiator. Which I've done my level best to block off but the side of the couch is angled, so, until I can purchase something heavy and wedge-shaped, I've given in. They like to flop around on the bright carpet under the coffee table. They like to run. Sounds like a marshmallow storm. Roland is an idiot. Marianne likes to watch "Breaking Bad." Dust is CUTE. Pearl....

I love you, THANK YOU for making this camping trip possible, you will be REWARDED. 

KITTEN UPDATE: They're Not All Kittens

I've had requests for a kitten update. For some reason. Y'all don't know what you're in for. But here you are:
1. Dust:

Dust remains my fave. And remains a kitten. But remains my favorite by a slim margin due to her sister, Marianne. Explanation forthcoming. Dust is adorable, looks the most like an ewok, and started on hard cat food eons sooner than her litter mates. I could serve her steak tartare with a side of celery and Cookie Crisp and she'd dig right in. Easy child. No, I haven't cut off one of her back legs.
2. Marianne:

Marianne, as it turns out, is a bat. As is clearly evidenced above. But she's the most patient, kind, practical, mature, silent, and intelligent bat I've ever met. And therefore, all my friends EXCEPT PAUL MAJOR want to adopt her. She is going to have green eyes. Which Catherine Shaffner and Adam Dorland feel will make her even more attractive. She's reading "War & Peace" to me at bedtime.
3. Pearl:

I......honestly have no idea.
A bear? Definitely a belter. And definitely OUT OF HER MIND.
And this is how she looks AFTER a bath.
Not recommended.
4. Roland:

The only one who has the decency to pose for photo shoots. Adorable, Oreo cookies, all that. NOT BRIGHT. Still has to be fetched out of the bathroom ten minutes after his sisters have easily bounded their bumbling way to the food dish.  But so very dear. Loves lying on his back as I vigorously towel him dry. Extremely skilled at getting poop clods stuck to his butt hair. But then, this has inspired me to take up the hobby of kitty cat butt cuts. So that's going on the resume.
All in all so far, they are LOUD, GROSS, STRESSFUL, and worth it I think. It usually takes me about a year to get over the shock and horror of my last kitten rearing and decide again that it might be a good idea. But these are awfully sweet. And going away in four weeks. And helping me meet my neighbors. I'll never forget that today, while sitting on the side porch in the sunlight scrubbing Roland with my beach towel, a neighbor I knew I had because she never fails to make my bedroom closet smell like cigarette smoke, but whom I'd never seen, emerged onto her porch. I introduced myself. She said, "Nice to meet you too! I'm Clementine. No- Rose. Call me Rose."
So that's material for a whole other blog.

One Batch of Kittens

I suspect someone has secretly sewn catnip into the floorboards beneath the window to the right of my couch. I have never in my life met four individuals more aggressively determined to get into one particular spot in my life.
I have houseguests. There are four newborn kittens living in my bathroom. Which is as messy as it sounds. The most inconveniencing thing so far has been my being forced to hack my Family Size Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries box all to bits to craft a whole new litter box for the little fiends. Super glue even got involved.
Anyway- I often think it will be a good idea to raise a batch of kittens. I'm wrong 101% of the time. But for those of you who find the little monsters endearing -despite the fact that they continue to poop- and have expressed interest in learning more about them, I have compiled the following bios for Gross, Stop That, What The Hell Even Is That, and Dump Truck- AKA Pearl, Marianne, Roland, and Dust.
Pearl:

Pearl is suspected to be a tiny gray grizzly bear, but I'll need a few more weeks to know for sure. Pearl is thusly named because Adam Dorland appreciates the beauty of cats or something and tends to give them attractive and regal names as opposed to more appropriate monikers like Gross. Which is where my instincts lie. Pearl spent the entirety of yesterday in my bathroom for reasons which remain unclear, despite my speaking very clearly and making her aware of the fact that she was allowed to come into the den. Pearl is a twin, but identifiable because she has a gap between her eyes the size of a silver dollar, which is notable when your entire body is only the size of a peach. Aesthetically puffy and pleasing; eyes of blue. Takes a damn half hour to towel dry after baths. Luscious locks and all that. Not too sure of intelligence as yet, but a brilliantly talented cuddler.
Marianne:

Marianne is thusly named because I just played a character named Marianne and Maggie Roop (who directed me in that play) happened to be over at my apartment while the name game was going on. I should have prefaced all this by saying that when I picked up the cat carrier full of neediness from Richmond Animal Control, the lady behind the desk told me she'd temporarily named them all after trees. But then, you know, you get them home and realize instantly that they aren't stationary, or toothless, or pleasant- or really anything to do with trees. Hence the re-naming. Marianne- we suspect- may actually be a tiny full grown cat who just happened to fall in with a litter of abandoned kittens. She sits to the side of the rest, trying her very best to nap amid the turmoil. The above photo is from just such a time. She was deep in sleep, feet tidily tucked beneath her like a normal human cat, when suddenly her sister started a rousing round of Nip the Nearest Genital! She's patient, has a tiny white patch on her belly, and in certain sunlight one can see mahogany stripes swirling down her back. I also lost her for an hour this morning when I stepped out for a moment to hide my fauxlar bear rug. But I found her. Reclining against the internet router.
Roland:

Roland, thusly named because there was another character in that play I just did who was male. This kitten is the only male in the batch. And you can tell. I'm never ever one to cater to gender stereotypes- since I could talk I gave my mother hell each Sunday morning when she gamely tried to get me into tights and a beautiful dress because WHY? WHY SHOULD I WEAR TIGHTS? WHO SAID? But that's probably an unpleasant memory and tomorrow's Mother's Day, and I love my mother dearly and would just like to say that now I love tights. But only if they're thick and warm and stop just above my nipples. All that to say- I've heard from many people that having a baby boy is a whole different ballgame from having a baby girl, and when I poked my head into the bathroom on the morning of This Living Kitten Nightmare Day 2 and saw the three girls wound into a softly purring ball and Roland staggering around covered in what appeared to be hummus or some sort of navy bean puree (neither of which he'd had access to), I thought there might be something to that particular stereotype. Overall, Roland is sweet, very wobbly, and has a black speck on his pink nose which might be a freckle and might be fossilized food, but I can't tell because it doesn't come off with warm water and gentle scrubbing. And that's about all the force I'm prepared to use on such a baby. Next week I'll break out the Brillo Steel Wool and then WE'LL SEE, ROLAND, WE'LL SEE!
Dust:

Dust. So named because- well, just look at it. I'm still not sure if there's a fourth kitten or if a high wind came through under my radiator. Dust is very sweet and stares at me unceasingly. Which is disconcerting. I don't need you to watch me walk to the bathroom, thanks. I do like Dust the best. I even let her sleep with me one night. I can tell I like her best because I didn't smother her. More than that though, I can tell I like her because when she pooped on the couch, not only did I not throw her out the window, I BLAMED MYSELF for not putting her back in the room with the litter box in time. I've gone soft.
So that's what's going on over here. They are receiving repeated prolonged and aggressive exposure to the dust buster, and may at this point think it's their mother. I've come to admire the sheen Lysol disinfecting spray can bring to most any surface when vigorously applied. I've been forced to relocate all my cereal boxes into the den to form a protective wall in front of my Bookcase of Important Items. Once they scale that wall though, it's out the window and back to Richmond Animal Control they go.
P.S.- Richmond Animal Control is where you can go to adopt the little devils in a few more weeks, if you're interested. They even will have had all their shots. Which they will deserve.

Constipations

Trevor invites me to Putt-Putt.
What I don't realize is that the Putt-Putt is in hell.
We enter. It's dark. Suddenly blinded by floodlights, we find ourselves staring down the maw of a craggy multi-leveled expanse of ebony Astroturf.
I glance down. Horror. Apparently the dress code for this particular Putt-Putt is skinny jeans. Skinny jeans and a BLOUSE. I glance over at Trevor. Fucker. He's wearing his own comfortable jeans and a flannel that looks soft as a baby soul.
No clubs; no balls. Just a dumpster. Hmm. We'll have to talk to each other.
I encourage Trevor to try and lick his elbow. Because I can. He is initially reluctant, but after a few thwarted attempts to evade me, his teensy competitive streak gets the better of him and he tries. He fails. This is not surprising. Fleetingly I am reminded of countless rounds of pool he's sent swirling down the toilet despite my unflagging support and encouragement. But that's a reminiscence which could take all night, and the show's only an hour. I offer Trevor a drink. He tells me he has a wife. I poke fun at his chosen profession. He tells me some elaborate yarn about pranksters thieving trash bags of honey out of his apartment which I don't believe for a second and then suddenly we both feel compelled to have a very serious italicized conversation without moving our arms.
Once that's done with, we decide we really must take some action regarding whether or not to continue hanging out. There's excessive waffling, but unfortunately no real waffles--though mention is made of toast.
Suddenly- an idea! Wouldn't it be fun, we think, to see which of us can pretend to be the drunkest? We've both had experience with vodka, and while Trevor's a wee bit taller than I, I am a wee bit older than he, so it should be a pretty good match-up. Immediately we both hit the deck. Hmm. Our instincts remain solidly in sync. I wobble and giggle. Trevor claws at the Astroturf. So far a tie. I pull ahead with a blistering monologue featuring many multi-syllabic science-specific vocabulary words and am thinking I've got this in the bag when Trevor, playing dirty, interrupts by bringing up sex- of all things- and I am momentarily distracted. 'Cause it's been a while.
I decide to call his bluff. I inch onto the top tier of Astroturf and move very close to Trevor's face, valiantly continuing with my physics recitative. Making a bold play to dismantle him completely, I kiss him. Ha! That shut him up. I am pridefully moving forward with my monologue and enjoying the heady aura of triumph wafting over me when he KISSES ME BACK.
Damn it.
An eye for an eye- I grab fistfuls of his shirt (which damn him- really is as soft as I'd feared) and mash my mouth against his. He mashes back. Things are heading swiftly toward an irrefutable stalemate when we both suddenly realize that this kiss isn't in the script and sheepishly break apart to continue on with Maggie's original blocking.
We decide we need a break. Having now touched mouths, we feel comfortable enough with each other to rehash uncomfortable moments from our past relationships. We reminisce in detail about occasions wherein we'd mistreated- or been mistreated by- various exes. I tell him about the time I came home from work to find my boyfriend sitting on the floor because he was so nervous to tell me he'd been sleeping with a victim of alopecia. He tells me about the time some short, bushy-haired ex of his slapped him properly across the face for not returning her text messages. He is quick to follow this with the disclaimer that, while that slap stung, it didn't come close to comparing with the slaps of one Kelly Kennedy.
But enough with the doldrums. I have it on good authority from Trevor himself that he does not know how to waltz. This strikes me as unacceptable, given that he is very excellent at singing and acting and interested in pursuing musical theatre. I can teach him this. After 90 full seconds of focused dance intensive, I realize I am not as good at waltzing as I thought, as all we have nailed is standing very close together and occasionally leaning from side to side. We decide to abandon this pursuit, as we are both friends with Patti d'Beck and confident she can teach us any dance we need to know.
Having grown weary of seeing how cakey my under-eye concealer looks in the reflection of Trevor's glasses, I ask him to please cross to the far side of the Putt-Putt. That's much better. Now I can see the lights reflected in his glasses. He totally looks like a cyborg! He humors my glee and we run through a portion of a later scene from these positions so I can enjoy pretending I'm in "Terminator II."
In return for his being so accommodating, I agree to let him try and convince me to abandon my lifelong aversion to wearing rings. He makes several valiant attempts, but only succeeds when he cleverly employs the tactic of standing far away from me as he tries to convince me so that I am once again hypnotized by those darn lights reflecting off his glasses.
Maggie, having been watching us goof off this entire time, and being a very talented directress, calls a temporary end to our shenanigans. If we ever want to go home, she says, we have to deliver some really heavy acting. First, we must pretend to have nervous breakdowns and hug each other. Trevor and I exchange trepidatious glances. The nervous breakdowns we can handle. The hugging each other? Questionable. We've gotten more notes on that in rehearsal than we have hairs on our heads. And that's saying something. Maggie continues. IF we make it that far, she would like us to perform an entire chunk of the play using only SIGN LANGUAGE.
.....
Somehow, we pull it off. We are secretly concerned that the only signs we've managed to perform correctly were disconcertingly vigorous signs for "ok" and "balloons," but no one calls hold, so we continue with the show.
Trevor gets the bright idea to spring up onto the dumpster for the next scene, which he does with grace and ease. I scowl. Show off.  I'll need an escalator to get up there that gracefully and I do so hate to be outdone. But then I remember- I'm wearing Maggie's suede platform bootie-hooves! Ha! I spring up almost as gracefully and easily, and, in the interest of payback, settle myself into his arms and rest my full weight against him for the entirety of this- the longest scene in the play.
I am feeling rather smug as we bring the play to a close, but then he really lays it on me. Not only does he position himself so that the cyborg glasses phenomenon is in full effect, he also starts to do really solid acting. My Lord, is that snot? The boy even has snot when he's doing pretend crying! Ugh. The first time I saw Trevor I admired both his blue pants and the way he successfully performed a full run-through of "Brighton Beach Memoirs" without banging his face on the Hanover Tavern ceiling, but I was unaware he would be such a shifty opponent.
I think fast. I don't have any snot- Joseph gave me a Claritin earlier in the afternoon and the blasted thing worked; I can tell I'm standing fully on top of the strip lights in the floor which I have explicitly been instructed NOT to do- distracting; I have a wedgie- ARRRRRGHHHHH!
Then I remember- when Maggie directed this bit, she said something- what was it--- oh- this is what she casually tossed off: "You can't cry here. This is what Marianne's known. What she's known he would do. At the end. And she's prepared this speech. There's no fighting- there's no frustration with the struggle to find words. She knows what she has to say. That what she deeply believes and is clinging to with her entire being to find solace- the hope that their time together is eternal- will somehow bring him peace. And if you break down, in this moment, he will come to you- and the most important thing for your life right now is that you make him strong. For the rest of his."
Yeah. That'll probably work. I do that.
Trevor and I stare at each other. A good round of acting. Dylan- more than ready to be done because she has a kickball mixer to get to- turns on all the lights.
We cross back to the entrance of the Putt-Putt and gaze out over our battlefield.
Good game.

Daenerys & Juliet

I am going to see "Romeo & Juliet" at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
I predict:
1. I am going to develop another crush on Matt Shofner.
2. I am going to invite myself over to Liz Earnest's apartment to have her braid my hair a la Juliet.
3. I am going to wax nostalgic for the days when I lolled around that stage in my purple sweatshirt evening gown whining to Evan Nasteff about how David Bridgewater wouldn't stop arguing with Melissa Johnston-Price long enough to buy me a bigger tiara.
*****
What actually happened:
I developed another crush on Matt Shofner. This happens routinely. Not when he's playing a wooden puppet and I'm playing an opinionated egg. Not when he's playing a flighty homeschoolee and I'm playing an obsessive compulsive adoptee with a lisp. Nope. Only when he's dressed as a newsboy doing box steps or as an overly confident transvestite car-washing an elderly conservative. Or, as I learned tonight, when he's naked except for nineteen vests making Shakespeare EFFORTLESSLY ACCESSIBLE.

Act 1: Matt enters holding an enormous pretzel stick.  Melissa enters wearing what I'd bet my entire apartment is Alexander's tunic from "The Lion in Winter." Modified for boobs, of course. Irene enters with a Bump-It in her BANGS.
So the gist of this play is- a bunch of people who have discovered their mutual love of tunics decide to get together and throw a party. It's all going well until Miss Liz comes downstairs having had the nerve to wear a full body doily. SO not the fashion. The boy at the party with the most stylish haircut- being a connoisseur of any new and trending fashions- takes a liking to Miss Liz and her adventurous attire, and invites her to stand with him on a table in the center of the room.
Normally, this kind of behavior would've caused a stir, but fortunately everyone is distracted by their slow motion flash mob AND the fact that Daenerys Targaryan has just shown up to the party.
Melissa -who really runs the house- takes advantage of the dance break to grill Daenerys about what the hell she's doing there. I mean, it's common knowledge that "Game of Thrones" is hip-deep into filming their final season somewhere in the undercarriage of New Zealand and she's probably inconveniencing a lot of people.
Following the party, Miss Liz decides that it would be super romantic to languish about on her balcony and talk loudly about the boy with the cool hair in hopes that he might happen by. And he does. After some initial indecision about where would be the most compelling place to lurk, he settles on downstage right where he's found a particularly alluring gobo.
This reverie is brought to a close when everyone in the city named Matt descends upon the garden. They're drunk. They just cannot get over Daenerys being at the party. Crotches are fondled, epithets  issued, and then we all retire.
Having really enjoyed the convo in the garden the night before, Miss Liz decides she'll go ahead and marry the boy with the nice hair. She has the option of marrying Axle, but that gets weird because he's going out with her mother.
Bo Wilson's the only guy around who can perform the ceremony- but he proves tricky to find. After much searching, Miss Liz and her intended happen upon Bo, clad head-to-toe in burlap and pretending to yank plants out of wooden platforms. After some inquiry, it is unveiled that Bo is doing character immersion research for the potential role of a monk in the next installment of "The Charitable Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants." He has a few moments though - so he marries those crazy kids.
Post-ceremony, Hairy Husband tells Miss Liz to run along to the house- he'll be there in a minute. One can only assume that he intends to stop into the nearest bodega for wedding night essentials-- condoms, olive oil, wax seals.
But in an unfortunate turn of events, pre-bodega, Hairy Husband runs into Matt Shofner. Matt is PRETTY PISSED because despite his best and, quite frankly, admirable efforts of sculpting his own hair into an absolute work of art, this new boy is getting all the attention. So he challenges him to a fight to the death. As one does. Things derail, though, with the appearance of a blonde gentleman with a heat tolerance so high he can wear trousers fashioned of drapery fabric. Wisely realizing this to be a greater threat, Matt decides to duel Trouser Man. Matt loses. He exits, sulking, stage right and immaturely refuses to participate in any further scenes of the show until curtain call.
Miss Liz, understandably, is a bit miffed that her new spouse has chosen brawling in the streets over having fresh, brand new sex, but decides to forgive her husband when he offers to re-enact the opening of "In the Heights," Act II. Miss Liz is pretty impressed. Not many people would've placed bets that anyone could look as muscularly attractive as Josh Marin without his shirt on, but Hairy Husband's really got it going on.
We think all will be well for the lovers, but. Here comes Colt. Colt is really excited to be back in Richmond and feeling rather devil may care about most things. Like wearing solid gold shoes. And marrying his daughter off to his wife's boyfriend.
Miss Liz, naturally, doesn't cotton to the idea. For one, she's already married. For two, Richmond isn't that big a city and she would see her motherhusband'sgirlfriend Irene EVERYWHERE. For three, weddings are usually long and boring and the VMFA demands all actors be out of the building by 10:30PM.
So she decides to kill herself.
Bo, deep in the vein of writing a comedy, convinces her to dial back the drama. Just make everyone think she's killed herself.
The ruse is successful. There is keening, which is how you know. Many people go to visit Miss Liz in her tomb. Melissa, Daenerys, Zach Galifinakis (who turns out to be Romeo's father), and Axle.
Axle lovingly places an artificial lily he's just picked up from A.C. Moore on Miss Liz's bosom. He's in the process of contemplating what the hell is going on in his life when Hairy Husband suddenly enters. He's in a tizzy- having had to rush out of the salon upon receiving news of his wife's passing.
Axle is torn. On the one hand, this fellow has robbed him of the opportunity of marrying his girlfriend's daughter. On the other hand, his hair is SO GOOD. Compromising, Axle roars accusingly that he is a "hottie Montague," and draws his sword. Ever a proponent of flair, he draws his cape as well. The two men engage in a beautiful death ballet which results in Axle taking a seat downstage right, in the very same gobo which Hairy Husband found so fulfilling an hour prior. Perhaps they weren't so different after all.
Meanwhile, Miss Liz hasn't drawn breath for twenty minutes. Understandably convinced that she's dead, Hairy Husband chugs some poison. Sadly, this poison wasn't from Bo, but from an actual monk who had no real sense of levity. So he dies.
Miss Liz wakes up and crosses her fingers that Hairy Husband has remembered his prop dagger. Cause what really could happen without that? Improv in iambic pentameter = a tall order. Oh, yes. There it is.
She responsibly stabs herself and falls face down on the slab. Damn. She may have broken her nose. She will have to talk later with Audra about the time she got extremely into a modern dance piece and cracked her nose so hard on the floor she gave herself a nosebleed. Maybe Miss Liz will braid her hair while they talk.