Friday, August 21, 2009

Dear Soaker*

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to my car and saw a cup of water and a handful of kibble next to it. I assumed TheManTheMyth had put his cup of water on the ground when he got in the car and forgot about it. I couldn't explain the kibble, though. A day or two later, I got the explanation: TheManTheMyth was heading to his truck early one morning when a cat came running out of the dark at him, yowling and demanding attention. Since Kitty was so insistent, weaving in and out of his legs and purring, TheManTheMyth assumed that Kitty was hungry and went and grabbed a handful of Lucy's kibble and some water to wash it down. While Kitty was gobbling the food, TheManTheMyth continued on his way.

When he told me about this, he described the cat as a gray cat. Knowing we have raccoons in the neighborhood, I jokingly asked him if Kitty had a black mask and a ringed tail. Hardy har har, said TheManTheMyth.

Well since then, Kitty has taken to hanging around our house, hoping for another handout. This morning, I was getting ready to take a shower and I heard the familiar yowling right outside the bathroom window. It was Kitty, sunbathing in a patch of sunlight but he had heard me through the window and was letting me know that if I wanted to toss him some kibble, he wouldn't decline it.

Still in my robe, I go outside and Kitty comes a-running. He proceeds to purr and rub against me legs, flopping onto his side while I scratch his head and ears. But he reminds me he wants food so I go and grab some of Lucy's kibble and he starts gobbling away:

Obviously, he's not a raccoon.

He ate every bite and demanded more so I also went and got him a dish of milk. He thought he had died and gone to Kitty Heaven.

Once he had finished his breakfast, he needed to discuss some things with me:

such as when he'd like his meals, and that he likes his ears scratched just so and why yes, he DOES like sitting in laps while his ears are getting scratched.

But here's the problem(s):

Yeah, them's are Big Balls. What we've got heah, is failure to fix a feline. I'm pretty sure that Kitty is one of the feral cats that have been living in the shrubbery behind the neighbor's house that backs up to the freeway.

The last thing I need right now is another animal. I already have a very jealous Special Needs dog

who demands the majority of my time, attention AND money.

I know I need to be responsible and at least catch Kitty and take him to get neutered. Who knows how many litters he's fathered. And if, IF, I get him neutered, it's only right that he get vaccinated so that he doesn't catch any icky diseases. And he'll need flea control, too. Oh, and a name. "Kitty" doesn't quite work for a big, strong male cat with powerful lungs.

I'm screwed.

* This was from an episode of Gilligan's Island where Gilligan mis-read a note that actually said, "Dear Suckers." "Dear Soaker" has become part of the Perkins Family Language and is only used regarding unplanned animal adoption.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

What's Under There?

If you're playing along, you will have said, "Under where?" and I will snicker to myself, "You said Underwear! Heh heh. Heh heh." Juvenile humor, yes, but it's funny to ME, dammit! And I need that humor today. Why, you ask. I'll tell you.

Today, I went shopping for something I hate, hate, HATE to go shopping for. Worse than shopping for a bathing suit, I went shopping for new bras. I knew it was time when the underwires on two of my bras decided to escape and stab me in a delicate area.

Now the reason I hate shopping for bras is because I am what you would call "Full-figured." Translation: I've got big, giant, 100% natural hooters. It's both a blessing and a curse. These days, we're leaning more toward curse than blessing. Trying to find a bra for the "Full-figured woman" that doesn't look like something you harness to a mule is a challenge. So off I go to my local higher end department store and head up to the "lingerie" department where I peruse racks upon racks (Pun intended. Heh heh.) of bras. I find several styles in my size and head to the dressing room.

I used to be paranoid about hidden cameras in dressing rooms but now, if someone is getting their jollies by looking at my pasty white sagging breasts, then bless their perverted little hearts because believe me, ain't nuthin' sexy about me these days.

Anyways. I try on the first bra. Nope. 2nd bra. Nope. Bras 3, 4 and 5. Nope, nein and nyet. 100 bras later (only a slight exaggeration), I finally tried on one that fit in the cups, the straps didn't carve into my shoulders, it was comfortable yet supportive and lifted the girls back up to where they belong. Yes, I thought, we have a winner! I'll just get several of this one, I said to myself as I preened in front of the mirror. And then I turned to see how it looked in the back and gave a shriek of horror. The skin of my back in between the straps was squeezed together so much it looked like I had some serious cleavage. You could have tucked a rose in there. And a pencil.

That was the final straw. I'd been trying on bras for over an hour and I was Done. Sadly, I know I must continue my quest before I'm reduced to rigging up some duct tape, elastic and dishtowels into a makeshift bra.

Pray for me.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Shopping at the Swap Meet

The Antique Swapmeet was back in town at Vets Stadium this weekend and since I had nothing better to do, what with waking up at 5:00am for no reason on a Sunday after whooping it up the night before at the Jackrabbits MC awards party where I was awarded a gift card to the Crack House for all my hard work at making our 2009 Hare & Hound a rousing success, I decided to go and see what I could see and perhaps spend some money on stuff I didn't need and have no place to put and how's THAT for a run-on sentence, eh?

So I jump into the Red Rocket (it doesn't always look like this. Really.)

and off I go. I really didn't have anything in mind to look for, just whatever caught my eye, knowing full well that the odds of me heading home empty-handed were quite large. Especially since I didn't bring much money. You can't spend what you don't have, doncha know. After a short time, I realized that I did have a reason for being there and that was for yet another round of People Watching. Seriously, the Antique swapmeet is prime for people watching. Where else can you hear the punch-line of a conversation between 2 gay guys that went, "But you don't wear underwear!" or listen to a Jamaican Rastafarian speaking fluent Japanese with his "Jah mon!" accent? And there's always some interesting stuff up for sale so I had some good blog-fodder here.

Are you the King or Queen of Your Castle? Do you have delusions of grandeur? If so, then you must have this to remind your minions that they are in the Presence of Greatness:

And a Royal Person does not have plain, boring bathroom fixtures. Oh no. Only marble carved with the heads of lions will do. Nothing says "Class" like a lion staring out at your feet while you drop a deuce and then wash away the residue.

And Royalty always has plenty of jewels. What better way to let people will know you are a person of Wealth and Taste than by wearing this:

It weighed a ton so make sure you have servants there to catch you as you stagger under the weight of your Royal Attire.

There was the usual "Vintage Clothing" sellers. There's always some interesting finds mixed in with the usual Average White Band concert tees and old nightgowns:

If you're going to a disco party and need a floor length gold leather dress that zips completely in half, I'm sure we can find one for you.

Or maybe you're being shipped off to Band Camp:

Seconds after snapping this photo, I heard squeals behind me and was almost knocked to the side by the two gay guys who had just zeroed in on it. They had a lively debate about where they could wear the jacket and hat before realizing that only an anorectic would fit into it and anorectic was something these boys were not, I'm just saying.

Going to Vegas in the near future and need something to do? Perhaps this will help:

There was also a "How to Strip for Fun and Profit" book along with some "erotic" paperbacks that, based on the titles and cover photos, were just bad 1970's stag films turned into books. They were kind of funny in a creepy way.

And speaking of creepy, there was an abundance of things that were just, well, creepy. Like dolls. I don't like dolls. I did when I was a little girl and had a babydoll but since I've become a grown-up, dolls just give me a case of the willies. I so don't get women who collect dolls but they probably don't understand my collection of Del Taco calories so I guess it's a draw. So I'm walking along and and see that someone is selling a child in a coffin:

This doll was almost life-size and to see her (it) just laying in that box was just plain wrong. And creepy. But not as creepy she is:

She stares blankly across the aisles at THIS:

For some reason, I keep hearing Courtney Love singing "I am doll parts." But seriously, somebody is trying to sell old, dirty doll appendages and they put a $55 price tag on the bowl of arms. Yeah, good luck with THAT. "Some day you will ache like I ache."

When I was a little girl, my Gramma had a Sock Monkey that sat on her bed. For some reason, I was absolutely terrified of that damn monkey. Something about the eyes. So I know that I will have nightmares after seeing THIS monkey:

There's just something about the eyes, I tell you.

There was one more creepy thing I saw but this was creepy in a cool way. I think.

These remind me of those Victorian "Sleeping Beauties" portraits of dead people and by portraits of dead people, I mean portraits that were taken AFTER death.

There used to be a vendor that sold old funeral and mortuary items that would have been a good companion to these photos but I haven't seen that vendor the last couple of times I've gone. It was always odd to see an antique child's coffin, wicker body basket and embalming equipment right next to the stall selling old toys and dishware.

The last few times I've gone to the swapmeet, I've seen this portrait of an old Orthodox Jew titled "The Diamond Cutter:"

And every time I see it, I tell myself "Next time, if it's still unsold, I'm buying it." So, next time I go, I AM buying it. Next time.

By this time, I had walked every aisle and my hips, knees and feet were begging to be put out of their misery so I headed for the exit. I did end up buying one skirt (not "Vintage") that I will probably wear until it shreds.

Then I went home and plopped on the couch. I had gotten in my 10,000 daily steps and dammit, I had earned my rest.