From our Non-Legally-Acknowldged-Family-with-Furry-Babies to Yours!!

Merry Hickmas!

 

The caption, plaid and cowboy hat were the only way Andrew was ever gonna let
this happen.

If You're Expecting a Meaningful Post, I'm Disappointed in you. When Have my Posts ever Been Meaningful?

So, I haven't posted in a week. While I'd love to have an awesome reason to be MIA, such as I was busy in Mexico trying to capture the Chupacabra or meeting up with Martha Stewart to teach that bitch how to party, it would be a lie. The actual reason I haven't been around?

I'm stubborn as hell and have a shitty memory.

While I've had the ability to keep the same password (or some variation of it) since middle school, the fact that a password change is required whenever I forget what damn variation I've used on a certain account has made the memorization of passwords impossible in the past month.

Example of original password from 6th grade:

• Waffles

Subsequent variations:

• Waffles28
• wafflewaffle
• Wafflywaffles (Oooh, so clever!)
• Crap, account won't let me use past passwords: waffles28waffles
• Woah, random symbol now required in password!: Waffle%28
•  %Waffles37 (Where the hell did I get this number?)
• %37Waffles

As you can see, by the end of it, I basically have to try every combination of a password focused on a delicious breakfast food (maybe X 2), ± capital W, ± one of two numbers, ± symbol. According to my calculations, this formula creates approximately one bajillion different arrangmentss.

Unfortunately, since the last post, I completely forgot which password I used for my Blogger account, and none of the previously mentioned password combinations seemed to work (it may be possible that I also kept forgetting which passwords I had already attempted, so that I kept trying the same four combinations over and over again). And since I had already changed my password three times in the last month, I was all, Fuck you Blogger, you are not making me do this again! It was then that I refused to recover my account by changing the password again; I vowed to uncover my Blogger password no matter what, even if it took blood, sweat and singing Cee-Lo Green Songs to do it.

And now, after six days of continuous attempts to beat my memory into submission and threats made to my laptop, blogging withdrawl made me weak and I have since reneged on my promise.

I now have a new password for this account. Mind you, I still have no idea what it is (even though I literally just changed it 20 minutes ago), but I've got it written down on multiple post-it notes for the next time my automatic log in doesn't work.

Sidenote: Since this isn't even a real post, I'm adding a random recreation of an animal that used to exist. Some people may call this one of evolution's many strange paths where physical adaptation went wrong; I call it God's creation after a crazy night spent mushroom tasting.

Behold! The Motherfucking-Chalicotherium!

 

As if Cats Weren't Already Paranoid Enought Without Needing a Reason...

Every couple of days, we wake up or come home to find our artificial Christmas tree kinda bent out of shape, with a few of its ornaments laying on the ground, as if the tree just came home from a Frosh Week binge.

And since Lucy isn't allowed to stay indoors unsupervised anymore, it's gotta be the cats. My theory is strongly supported by the evidence from when I caught Sako last Sunday on the top third of the tree, attacking a bell ornament. The fact that she was also on the outside of the tree, and not in the tree, makes me assume that she just pulled a Keifer Sutherland and fucking launched herself onto the tree.

 

They also have a history of using the tree as a vacation spot, as seen in this video from last year.
 

So when Andrew bought himself a motion-detecting hunting camera (you know, the ones you strap to a tree so you can find out if a lot of deer come by so you can slaughter them for antlers and burgers), I thought we could use it for more peaceful dectective work instead.

Result: the hunting/spy camera is now propped up on my piano and doing 24 hour monitoring of our Christmas tree and surrounding area. We're gonna catch these bitches in the act.

The suspected culprit of 90% of all tree-related incidents.

The other cat who is probably too fat to climb the tree anymore.
Also, we have like four pictures of her in that exact same spot
and pose, but during different times in the night.

So far, the only suspicious action the camera has caught is the mysetrious removal of two Christmas presents from under the tree (which were all strategically placed so that the cats couldn't get to the base of the tree).



Gifts there....

Gifts gone.

Tree-watching will continue until the gun-cats are caught in the act.

Sidenote: Not gonna lie, while Andrew and I were looking through all the nighttime photos on his camera, a small part of me was scared that we were randomly going to have a dead girl in a photo, proving that minihomes can be haunted too.

Sidesidenote: I don't even watch scary movies and thoughts like these pop up in my head. Could you imagine how permanently terrified I would be if I did?

Dr. Christine, Relationship Expert - I Need to Start Charging for this Shit

I have developed a highly scientific test to determine if your partner is compatible with your insanity. There are only four easy steps and require materials that everyone should have in their home*.

While searching for this photo, Google offered
"Breast Pump Disco Party" as a result. You read
my mind once again, Google. 

Materials Required:

• A small light. A pocket flashlight or cell phone will do.
• A little cow (Mine was a tiny metal figurine.)
• Using a real cow is ill-advised as they tend to poop wherever they want.
• *Everyone should have some sort of cow in their house. Everyone. It cow-pletes your home
• I'm sorry that just happened.

Alright, now that you're confused as to why the hell these two items are going to help you test your relationship, here is what you need to do:

Step 1: Wait for your partner to go to sleep. They should be asleep for at least half an hour.

Step 2: Enter the bedroom, sneak over to their side of the bed and place the cow near their face.

Step 3: Turn on small light, pointing it at the cow.

Step 4: Make the cow dance around on the pillow while you moo a song. (Preferably a disco song, such as the Bee Gees' "Staying Alive".)

Now, their reaction to this event will determine their awesomeness-score.

You have no idea how much time and effort it took to make this.

• They get angry: Ok, so it's kinda expected. Most people don't care to be woken up, especially by a dancing cow. The only things that should ever wake me up from a wonderful sleep are chocolate cake, unicorns or Joe Manganiello. Or Joe Manganiello carrying a cake while riding a unicorn.

However, regardless of how reasonable this reaction may be, it's clear that they lack the A-1 Mellow gene in their Awesome chromosome.

• Score: Awesome-deficient. They should learn to fly a jet, or hang out with Joe Manganiello. It's a well-known fact that Awesome can be transfered through osmosis.

They ignore you: Better than outright anger, but still disapointing. If they are committed to you, it means accepting and embracing all of you. Including nocturnal bovine karaoke sessions.

• Score: Unfortunately, you seem to have attached yourself to a normal human being. One that is used to your shenanigans, but does not revel in them like you do. What a boring, sad life. To cure this, you must force-feed craziness into your partner's life until they learn to appreciate it, goddamnit!

They are amused, let you finish your dance and then go back to sleep: Hurray, someone who appreciates your creativity and lack of self-control!

• Score: Awesomeness Enthusiast. Your partner is like a bird-watcher, except instead of looking for birds, they just live with a crazy person for their own personal amusement. Just be glad they don't keep you in a cage to watch you flit around and sing.
• Unless you're into that sort of thing.
• If you are, you're fucked up.

They take the cow away from you and make it breakdance as they join the singing: They are your mental soulmate. Your mentalmate. Not only can they easily handle the fact that you've got a one-way ticket to Looneytown, they've got a ticket too. You've probably rented a completely padded car for two on a train (since planes give you bigger nervous breakdown than drugged up Annie Walker in Bridesmaids.)

• Score: You need to keep this one in a cage, if that's what it takes to hang on to them.
• The comment about cages in the previous score only applies if you enjoy being in a cage; it's totally normal to want to cage certain people.

You're so welcome.

Let me know if you've attempted this test and please share your result.

Kittens at the Vet

Here are a few photos of the kitties when I brought them to the vet for their checkup.

Sidenote: Yes, I realize that they should no longer be referred to as kittens. I don't care.

Anyways, nothing too exciting happened at the vet; the cats acted the same as they always do.

As usual, Tika doesn't really give a shit what's going on around her.

And Sako runs and hides at the first sign of anything new.

She stayed hidden behind the vet's laptop until we pried her away to do the examination. She then hid again as soon as it was over. You know, in case the vet suddenly decided to amputate her for no apparent reason.

Seriously, it's like this cat is on a permanent crack cocaine binge.

However, the most stressful part of this yearly trip is always the ride home. The cats have this cute little tradition where they shit in their crate on the way back home from the vet, just to spite me.

Every. Fucking. Time.

On this visit though, they seemed to be doing good. Until we got about two minutes away from the house. Then all at once, the car was filled with a stench. The traditional gift-of-thanks-for-checking-on-their-health stench.

Time suddenly seemed to slow down. As I gagged and frantically rolled all the windows down, the two cats stared me down from their shared crate. The look in their eyes can only be translated as "That's what happens when you take us to the vet, Bitch."

Thanks for the shit, kittens.