Archive for the ‘picspam’ Category
I know most of you are like, “Talulah, I don’t want to see more pictures of your fucking cat in the fucking snow, okay?” But frankly, I don’t care. I AM OWED, GUYS.
My mother tells this story about how when I was a toddler, my entire immediate family went down to Virginia Beach for the day and she tossed me in the ocean to be raised by squids. Okay, not that last part. She put me in the ocean and we were playing and then all of a sudden, this black gunk started dripping out of my ears. She and my dad fah-reaked, because they thought it was blood and that their precious, most perfect and wonderful youngest child was hemorrhaging out her ears.
It was earwax, y’all. Although on a related note, a couple of years later momma was using a Q-tip a little too vigorously and it slipped and she stabbed me, possibly in the brain. I bled out of my ear a WHOLE LOT. And now I get to hold that over her for the REST OF OUR LIVES.
Isn’t parenthood awesome? Don’t you want to go have a kid RIGHT NOW?
Oliver is a big cat, but like many a Tom, his voice? Yeah, it doesn’t exactly fit his large and beefy exterior.
I actually didn’t hear Oliver meow before we took him home. He chirped, he purred, he stared down the other cats when they tried to swat him in the face, but he didn’t speak. Until we put him in a carrier and then put him in the car and then drove the fifteen minutes home. During the course of that fifteen minutes, he shat himself and revealed his tinny, high-pitched little girl mew.
I still don’t know which was worse: the violent diarrhea, or the his wittle giwl voice.
If Northern Virgina gets any more snow, I’m gonna fucking claw my way out of here!
So I wrote an e-book. It is here. I am not saying that you have to buy this e-book, because times are hard and there are plenty of worthy causes to donate to right now, tomorrow, and forever. But let me lay this out so we’re all on the same page, here: my e-book costs you, the buyer, 3.00USD. That was about as low as I could price it while still turning anything resembling a reasonable profit (in this case, 1.21 USD). The rest of that $3.00 is lulu’s, and I don’t begrudge them it, since they’re allowing me to distribute this thing and also, they gave me that WICKED SWEET cover with a smoking gun on it.
But if you read my previous post, you will know that the first hundred dollars this e-book makes are pledged to Scarleteen.com, and after that they get 25 percent. The truth is, I never expected ”The Dumb Whore Brigade” to make more than $100, because my readership is low and so is my profit margin. I was just trying to account for the best case scenario. BUT. I would like Scarleteen to get their $100, and to that end, I’m going to include a link to “The Dumb Whore Brigade” in every post from now until doomsday the end of February. I’m not doing this to annoy you. I’m not doing this to guilt you. I’m just doing it because if a lady writes a series of essays about her vagina, the sex ed org she’s donating the profits to* DAMN WELL better profit.
And now, on to the real post of the day. Which, not coincidentally, is about vaginas.
A few years ago, I was trying to get a decent shot to put up on facebook. I failed. Hard. With somewhat entertaining results.
Is it just me, or do I look strangely Lohan-esque in this one? It’s something about the crazy hair, the greasy face, the glassy eyes, and the vaguely disgusted expression (end of a looooooong workday, if I remember correctly). I definitely look like I need to quit doing all that smack and go crawling back to Disney, begging for mercy.
…oh, wait. That’s MY cat, and MY motherfucking book!
Bastard. I’m gonna steal his copy of “Circuits Made Simple” and SEE HOW HE LIKES IT.
*Although I doubt he was expecting the hot pink airbrush job.
We got YET MORE SNOW last night, which makes me bitter and mean. Y’all don’t understand: when there’s ice on the road, SASHA FIERCE won’t go on it. And if I’m not using SASHA, then I’m walking, riding my bike, or bumming rides as my major methods of transportation.
SO. NOT. AMUSING.
But let’s go back! Let’s go back to a simpler time, when getting my face waxed was not something I had to plan with military precision and facilitate with hefty bribes, and when snow was a novelty! A few weeks ago, toward the beginning of December, it snowed during the night. Oliver expressed interest in going outside, and I was all, “It’s your funeral, cat,” and let him.
I don’t have pictures, unfortunately, but it was the cutest motherfucking thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life. That kitten threw snow at me. He rooted through it looking for leaves that The Boyfriend someone had forgotten to sweep off the deck. He played. He pranced.
It made me feel better, actually, because the adoption agency found him living outside around this time of the year last year. Knowing that he doesn’t mind the cold, that he actually likes snow, makes me feel less awful about the time he spent in it before he walked into a stranger’s heated car and drove off into the sunset.
(True story: the lady who found him told me he literally followed her back to her car and got in. Aaaaaand now you know why he’s not allowed outdoors except on a leash.)
Anyway. Off the depressing adoption stories. I didn’t take pictures that night, but I let my snow baby out again the next morning. He didn’t like the snow as much then–it was icy, not powdery–and kind of skittered around it. The results were still adorable, though.
On Saturday morning, I awoke at an unseemly hour, made breakfast, checked to make sure my train was on time (it was), and then roused the Boyfriend so that he might do his manly duty and convey me to Union Station.
In due course, the Boyfriend cleared the stairs, the walkway, and then dug his car out of six inches of snow. I had to fan myself a few times while witnessing such brute masculinity, but otherwise all was well.
And then he tried to back out.
And then he tried to back out again.
And then he tried to back out again.
And then he said, “Deb, I’m sorry, but I don’t feel safe doing this.”
Normally he only says stuff like that when I’ve introduced extremely large vegetables into our love life (just kidding, mom!), so I did not take his misgivings lightly. Instead of attempting to bulldoze my way into getting what I wanted–which is what I normally do, being a youngest child and all–I just quietly accepted the inevitable and went and called my family to let them know that snow is a FUCKING SCROOGE.
And then I napped for a few hours: the nap of sadness, the nap of no long Christmas break for the first time in my life, the nap of DESPAIR.
After a few hours, I’d had enough of napping (and eating, and reading), so the Boyfriend and I decided to take a walk. In the middle of a snow storm. Because we are insane. This is what our front staircase–which had been cleared of SIX INCHES OF SNOW just that morning–looked like after George and I tripped down it at 4 that afternoon: