"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.