Wednesday, April 30, 2008
These people have a lot of time on their hands...it seems to work for them, though.
Now, I can appreciate a good cake as much as the next person, and I can absolutely appreciate a piece of fabulous workmanship and artistry. But this cake is beyond creepy. It's a woman making a life-sized cake in the shape of a baby. Dude, who would want to eat a baby? And where would you cut into it? This thing is just so many shades of wrong...
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
People who don't know the difference between there, they're and their, or, your and you're. Ooh, or its and it's.
Learn some grammar, people.
All righty (yes, that's right, all right is 2, count 'em TWO words. It's NOT alright. Just ask the SAT Prep book, thank you very much)...what was I saying? Oh right, all righty, folks, it's science time.
Summertime is known for a vast increase in insect population. Not all bugs are nasty, though. Or, are they? The following closeups are taken with electron microscopes.
Here we have a pretty butterfly. How many of these things have you held?
But close up...
That there spiral thingy is the butterfly's tongue. It's licked you.
And here we have a pretty sphinx moth.
But close up...
That there curly thingy, that there is the moth's tongue. Its tongue. Imagine how long that thing is when unfurled. Think about that next time one is flying at your lamp or comes flying out of the closet.
I grew up watching Bob Ross. I loved watching him paint. I don't know many people who don't know him. Even though the only thing I really can paint is nude women, he made me yearn to do landscapes. The folks over at mental_floss have put together a happy little quiz. Click the link below to see how well you know Bob.
So today, I decided to take the M98 bus home, because quite honestly, sometimes I just don't feel like being sardined into a boiling hot, stinky subway car. The M98 isn't much better, but at least it's outdoors, and it usually empties out before the long express run from 125th to 179th. But I digress...
There was this little old lady sitting in the back of the bus with her walker. She was in one of the handicapped seat, and it's up to the bus drivers to help these people on and off of the bus via a lift. The little old lady decides she wants off, and starts screaming, "Bus driva'! Bus driva'! I wanna git owf da bus!" in her little old bronx accent, bless her heart. The bus driver, being employed with the MTA, doesn't give a rat's ass, and doesn't come back to help her. Everyone starts yelling at him, until the back door opens. The little old lady stands up, screams "Ah, fuck you, too," to the driver, hefts her walker (which had to weigh as much as she did) aloft and clambers down the bus's back steps, which are higher and deeper than normal steps.
That little old lady was awesome.
Cary over at List of the Day posted a list of post cards, supposedly from Yo Momma. I liked this one best.
Posted by PrincessPi at 10:05 AM
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
I took this off BF's IM. This chick was IMing him. I laughed.
Holy crap. I'm crazy, but this puts me to shame. Maybe I'll share my meds with her.
The British Office of Government Commerce rolled out their new corporate logo, pictured below. Go ahead. Stare at it for a few seconds.
You see it, don't you? Of course you do. The department didn't realize the mistake until after promotional items with the new logo had been manufactured, but figured, fuck it, we'll send it out anyway. Their reasoning behind keeping the masturbatory logo? It "...is not inappropriate to an organization that's looking to have a firm grip on government spending!"
I wanna find the graphic designer who came up with this logo, squeaked it past the big wigs, and buy him a cold beer.
Read the full story here.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
For the BF's birthday today, we went to Gasho Hibachi Steak House on Route 32. We've passed by it several times, and every time we go by, it looks so nice that we want to eat there, and we figured that since his dad was going to pay for his birthday dinner, we'd finally treat ourselves.
So, we go in. It's a beautiful place, by the way. We're seated within about ten minutes. It's a bunch of community tables with cook tops so the chef can cook your dinner right in front of you. We've got one of these tables to ourselves. We order our food.
So far, so good. The chefs at the other tables are a bit obnoxious, and the bottles of beer that the neighboring men are consuming are the size of half-gallon milk jugs, so they're pretty rowdy. Our appetizers come. Ew. Seriously, ew. Salty, sparse, just...ew.
Then, about fifteen minutes later, our chef comes up. "How you dooooinnnn'?" he asks, Joey-style. The three of us just look at him.
He starts cooking, and food goes flying in every direction. I have tilapia, BF has filet mignon and his father has chicken. Both the men have shrimp. Firstly, I notice the shrimp is being cooked WITHOUT BEING DEVEINED. Do you know what the vein is? It's the shrimp's digestive tract. That brown stuff? Shrimp poo. POO! They cooked us poo.
Then the chef did BF's filet mignon. Cooked it ok, I guess. Then, proceeded to chop it into bite-sized pieces. Who, in their right mind, chops up filet mignon? The chicken got a similar treatment, and was quite dry. It was all dowsed in soy sauce. Too salty. My fish...well...it was fish. What can I say. The vegetables were overcooked, the rice was oddly nutty. The diet coke was delicious, though.
It was the first dinner restaurant we ever went to where BF didn't order dessert. That in and of itself testifies to the utter ickiness of this particular establishment.
The best part of the whole experience, though, was an older man who was there for his birthday with his family. The wait staff brought out a quarter of a pineapple, cut lengthwise into a wedge, put a sparkler in it, and proceeded to smack everyone in the party on the head with a toy plastic mallet that squeaked with every smack. It was surreal.
It was, all in all, the WORST MEAL EVER. I've had better meals at trucker stops in the middle of Pennsylvania.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Vanessa's Rules by Which to Live
Rule #2: If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat.
And if your aim is completely lacking, perhaps you have an inner ear problem that needs to get checked. Seriously, call me. I can give you the number to a great otorhinolaryngologist.
See, here's the thing. It doesn't matter if you're nice to me. It doesn't matter if you smile, and laugh when I say something meant to be funny. If you're not my friend, chances are, I'll notice. It's not me being paranoid, thinking "oh my god, are they, like, totally talking about me behind my back?" Dude, seriously, I'm too old to play these games. If you're no longer willing to be my friend, at least be professional, but don't humor me. I think that's the worst insult you could give someone.
To those to whom this is addressed, believe me, you know who you are.
It's been fun, but I'm done with these games. Of everyone, I should not have to be the one to say grow up.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
So, wading through a pool of dumbfounded tourists on my way to the Columbus Circle subway stop on my way home from work today, I thought it might be a good idea to put together a guide for NYC tourists so that they don't look like tourists. Don't be such a target, people!
We'll see how that turns out.
Update: So I started the blog. If I get no interest, I'll delete it. We'll see. Come visit me! Make me feel like I'm making a difference in some poor tourist's life.
I named the blog Antitourist. Come on, step outside the box.
Sears, Robert E. Lee Sued For Dressing Room Peep Show
by Chris Dovi
Revisionist historians and Southern apologists, please avert your eyes.
First Robert E. Lee lost the Southern cause, now one of his more recent rear-guard actions has him in hot water in Henrico County Circuit Court.
It seems the rears that this Lee — of the 8000 block of Creighton Parkway in Mechanicsville — tried guarding were not among his assigned duties as an assistant manager at the Virginia Center Commons Sears in March 2006.
No, the rears in question were trying on bathing suits in the ladies’ dressing room, above which Lee had taken up a scouting post. The action has already earned Lee two convictions for peeping.
Now Lee’s being sued for $2.7 million — that’s federal currency, not Confederate bonds. The facts: One of Lee’s victims, a pre-pubescent girl, happened to glance up to notice Lee watching her through the ceiling tiles and reported it to store officials.
After Lee surrendered to Henrico Police, investigators discovered the Sears manager had created a makeshift masturbatorium from a service platform just above the ladies’ dressing rooms.
It appeared to investigators that the prefab peeping hutch had been in use for quite some time, the victim’s lawsuit alleges, and that Lee admitted to watching the girl and her mother trying on bathing suits.
“During the search of the room, police officials recovered sexually explicit magazines and seminal fluids,” the suit says.
Initially, Lee was charged with four misdemeanor counts, two each for peeping and masturbating in public. When he entered pleas of no contest in October 2006, it was only to the two charges of peeping.
The current civil action is actually two lawsuits, each asking for $1.35 million. Both Lee and Sears are named as defendants.
“We have a young girl who has been traumatized,” says Keith B. Marcus, a lawyer representing the case. “She’s seeking counseling. It’s something that will take some time to resolve. Given the defendant’s conduct, I believe it’s warranted.”
Naming Sears as a co-defendant also is warranted, Marcus says: “Sears has to monitor their employees. You can’t turn a blind eye to what your employees are doing and it was obvious this had been going on for a while.”
Reached for comment, a Sears spokeswoman, Kim Freely, says she’s unfamiliar with the history of Lee’s case, but “I can tell you we wouldn’t comment on pending litigation.”
Lee is not on the state’s sex-offender registry because misdemeanor peeping earns a slot on the list only after the third offense.
Here's the front of the douche bag (I did not put that caption in there)
And...here's the back, equally douche baggy as the front.
Dude, I hate to tell you this, but tribal tattoos, getting "Pig" tattooed on your chest and "Manimal" tattooed on your back...all elements of a douche bag.
the fabulous ladies at Jezebel published a synopsis of funding that has gone to political candidates from various retailers. This was my favorite.
J.Crew is your store if you are into uneasy family reunions! CEO Mickey Drexler has donated nearly a hundred grand to Democratic committees alone, while octogenarian founder Arthur Cinader likes lining the coffers of any fucking batshit Republican who bats an eyelash his away. Cinader has donated to Alan Keyes, Sam Brownback and Malcolm Forbes, but his fave is Phil Gramm, who has received $8,000 from him over the years.
Found this on List of the Day. I can't tell if she's doing a weird 80's exercise (like 70's jazzersize, only weirder), special lamaz breathing for birth, or some sort of weird method to relieve constipation.
(notice the appropriate grammer in the title)
I've decided to start publishing rules that I think are important. Grammer is one of them, but that's not the purpose of this particular posting. No, this here posting is for the ladies. Here goes.
Vanessa's Rules by Which to Live: Rule #1
Ladies, no matter how fabulous you think your breasts are, you need to WEAR A BRA in public. No one needs to see your nipples. So, unless you're trolling the clubs for some sleazy guy, WEAR A FRICKIN' BRA. Please. For the love of god.
It's a slow day at work today, which is fortuitous, since I'm sleepy. Browsing online, I found this website where you can change the amount of gas and viscosity within a volcano and watch the resulting volcanic eruption. It's education (yawn), but it is fun. I promise.
So, are you ready? Build your own volcano!
Monkey, this would be great for you, since you're having such a hard time with earth science right now. I promise, you'll like it.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
As a lactose intolerant, there's nothing I like more than a buttery grilled cheese sandwich. I'm kind of a traditionalist: white bread, land 'o' lakes and craft american cheese food, all done on a non-stick skillet over medium heat until the bread is golden brown and melts in your mouth.
Today, however, I may have to bend my loyalty a bit. Asylum put out an article about gourmet grilled cheese recipes.
This one is made with fig butter and blue cheese and looks ooooh sooooo cheddery. (click the pic for the link)
There's another one using brioche, goat cheese and raspberries, but there's no need to get all crazy, now.
I think I'll get grilled cheese for lunch.
You know those days when you just need someone to hold you? Or those nights when your boyfriend comes over for a wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and then leaves immediately, leaving you longing for a cuddle? Have we got the product just for you.
This product features one of the only useful parts of a man: what we like to call his "cuddle zone". Snuddle right up in there, and get the emotional support the man in your life is unable to provide.
I tried. I really did. I always have high hopes for these books which have fabulous reviews, that are recommended to me, but damn, this was the slowest book ever. I spent two weeks trying to trudge through it and finally, this morning, I gave up. I'm a little more than halfway through, and the action has only barely started. Here's a brief synopsis:
It's told from the perspective of two (three) people:
1. IP Lawyer Mischkin, told in the first person, past tense. He's in hiding because Russian mobsters are out to get him.
2. Bookstore accountant and inventory clerk (aspiring director) Carlotti (is that even right? so forgettable I can't even remember the dude's name). Written in the third person.
3. Richard Bracegirdle, a 17th century man supposidly spying on Shakespear. His sections are written in italics in old English and are in the form of letters, first to his wife Nan, and then to his Lordship (for whom he is spying).
This ancient manuscript is found, alludes to an undiscovered play by Shakespear, Russian mobsters want it, it's stolen, yada yada yada. When it comes down to it, the plot is unbelievable, lengthy, slow and downright insipid.
Yet another disappointment in the treasure hunt genre.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Out to get you, too, eh? From Overheard in New York
Just Discreetly Poison Yourself at Home Like a Lady
NYU girl #1: ... Like those people who kill themselves by throwing themselves onto the subway
NYU girl #2: Yeah, right? I mean, I know you want to die and everything, but could you like not make me late??
--NYU BusOverheard by: wow
Monday, April 21, 2008
[Image copyright Jorn Olsen, available for purchase here.]
I found this through the mental_floss blog. Holy mother. And what's super duper creepy about it? It sounds like a wood chipper that could potentially eat your arm rather than a child's bank eating your coins.
Ha! I just looked it up on the company's website, and it's described as, yes, CREEPY PIGGY BANK!
This story from Consumerist
Some debt collectors are mighty persistent.
NPR says that a 77-year-old Tampa woman, Joan Kennedy Biddle, is suing to collect on a $300 loan that her great-grandfather made to the city of Tampa 147 years ago, during the Civil War. That modest debt (with interest) has grown to a little under $23 million dollars.
Biddle is in possession of an IOU signed by Tampa's mayor promising to repay her ancestor for money borrowed to purchase supplies to be used in defense of the city of Tampa. The IOU is dated 1871, after Florida joined the Confederacy. When asked why she's trying to collect the debt now, Biddle told NPR: "Better late than never."
In defense of itself, the City of Tampa came up with a rather impressive list of reasons why the debt is not valid, not least of which is the fact that it was payable in Confederate dollars — a currency that no longer exists. It seems that Ms. Biddle's IOU may do better on Antiques Roadshow than it will in a court room.
Posted by PrincessPi at 7:17 PM
1. People on the subway (or bus) who spread their legs so they're taking two seats.
2. Alarm clocks that don't go off.
3. People going through doors who don't check behind them to see if the closing door will be knocking someone in the face.
4. Monday mornings.
5. People I put on hold for two minutes, hang up, call right back and say "you had me on hold for five minutes! Why can't you manage that office?! Do you need to call me back when it's more convenient for you?"
I guess that's it for now.
Posted by PrincessPi at 9:45 AM
Thursday, April 17, 2008
So, lately, I’ve been thinking about writing a book. I could call it Poor Vanessa. The back cover would read as follows:
The world is out to get Vanessa. In this 300-page bitch-fest, Vanessa expounds – in great detail – exactly how it’s ever/yone against her. Join her, won’t you, in being victimized by her absentee father, her over-bearing stepfather, her critical stepmother, her micromanaging boss, her friends who just don’t understand, her therapist who thinks she’s making it up, her coworkers who think she’s weird, her super who thinks she’s a cheap bitch, her readers who think she's just being overly dramatic, and the transit authority that is subtly and sinisterly trying to drive her insane.
I think it would be a big hit.
This is from overheardinnewyork.com.
If Everybody's Wearing Pants and Nobody Takes Your Wallet, It's a Successful Commute
Crazy hobo, dancing and singing as he walks down the aisle: Yeah, yeah, yeahhhhhh... Yeahhh yeahhh yeahhh. And now for my grand finale! [pulls emergency break and exits car.]
Angry woman: Oh, hell no. He did not just do that. I knew he was gonna to do that shit.
Friend: Why didn't you trip him or somethin'?
Angry woman: Are you fuckin' kidding me? And get beat up by a crazy? Did ya'll see that?!
Young woman: Fuck my life.
Overheard by: KK
Posted by PrincessPi at 12:57 PM
Monday, April 14, 2008
Let this be a lesson to all you little hoey teenagers who think they're grown up by talking to twenty-something perverts on myspace. You could have been raped...in the butt.
"Alcohol makes you let down your prohibitions."
- one of the fine ladies from Miss Rap Supreme on VH1.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
When I began making my plans to visit my mother and sister in Rochester, one of the few things I wanted to do was visit my cousin A, because she just had a baby, and I wanted to hold the baby. However, since we can't just see one member of the family without seeing the rest of them, we made it into a little tea and cake party for my mother, since it was her birthday. But, honestly, the whole point was for me to see the baby.
So, Sunday rolls around, and the first to arrive is my mom's friend C, followed shortly thereafter by the first members of the family, D and M. M broke her leg in a car accident so she's gimping around, and D's walking around like his shit's made of gold and he's God's gift to everyone. They sit at the table. Then, then, pulls up my lovely cousin A, lugging a baby carrier with her beloved baby boy, N.
A walks in the front door, looks at me with wild, crazy eyes, and says, "SHHH! N's sleeping. He sleeps for two hours."
"Oh yeah?" I ask. "I'm gonna pick him up."
"No, you're not," she informs me.
"Oh, yes I am."
"No, you're not. He's got a cold and pink eye, and I just got him down for a nap. He needs to sleep for two hours, because he likes to sleep for two hours for each of his naps. And I also have pink eye, a cold, my period and I have a yeast infection. I wasn't even going to come."
Smiling sweetly, because I can now see how this day is going to go, I turn around and walk back into the kitchen. "I'm sorry," I tell my mother quietly, "I now see the error of my ways." She smiles weakly as she pops an unidentifiable pill.
Soon enough, my aunt L shows up, all 250 pounds of her wrapped up in a short sleeve, size small shirt. Shortly thereafter, the doorbell rings again, and it's friends of the family, E and Mari. Not that I don't love E and Mari, but they hadn't been invited. But wait, aunt L invited them. To our house. Without telling anyone. I now start longing for one of my mother's unidentifiable pills.
By this point, cousin A has moved on from pink eye to how perfectly baby N sleeps in his little two-hour increments, to how she needs to pump twice in the morning to get one bottle of breast milk.
I'm at this point getting so frickin' irritated that my hair is literally standing on end. I go play scrabble with my sister, D, M with D's brother watching over us. I play the word AX.
"AX isn't a word!" D's brother yells, even though he's not playing. I calmly explain that it is, indeed, a word. "No, it's not! It's AXE!"
"Dude, if you're not playing, mind your business," I tell him.
Later, I play the word AY.
"AY isn't a word!" D's brother yells, even though he's not playing. I calmly explain that it is, indeed, a word. "No it's not! Prove it."
After the game was over, I proved it.
Later on, everyone left. Only D and M said good bye.
I'd rather have gone to the hockey game.
Apparently, it's not enough that the MTA's out to get me. No. Now Jetblue has to get in on the action. Let me elaborate.
Yesterday, I was booked on Jetblue Flight 30 out of JFK airport at 10:55 pm. I expected the light to be delayed; these late flights are always delayed. Fine. I checked in during work and printed my boarding pass so I wouldn't have to wait in line once I got to the terminal. I took a car service through terrible traffic, and finally arrived at the airport at 8 pm, because, quite honestly, I am anal retentive about showing up to flights early. Drives my BF nuts.
I walk into the terminal and look at the board to figure out which gate I'm supposed to go to. I find my flight, follow the line over, and...cancelled. What?! Never has my flight been cancelled. Yes, it's foggy outside, but, dude, that's why airplanes have guidance systems. We've flown in fog before. Hell, I've flown in blizzards before.
Frantic, I approached the customer service desk, knowing that I had to be calm and non-confrontational as consumerist.com advises. I explained my situation to the counter girl. My flight's been cancelled, I'm supposed to go home. I know that there's another flight out to Rochester, scheduled to leave in a half hour, but it's been delayed to 11:30 pm. Is there any way I can get on that flight?
"Rochester, NY?" she asks. I affirm. "I'm from Rochester. Let me see what I can do. I'm not really supposed to do this, but..."
She doesn't put me on stand-by. She actually puts me on the flight. She transfered my ticket from my cancelled flight to the earlier, delayed flight, giving me one of the last available seats. I wanted to climb over the desk and give her a huge kiss right on the lips.
I hauled my ass to security. The line was long, but whatever, it usually moves quickly enough. Halfway to the metal detector, I realize that none of my toiletries are in a ziploc, as is required by the airlines since 9/11. I get one from the security guard and search through my purse for my makeup, lotion and deoderant. Thusly secured, I grabbed a bin in which to put all of my things. From behind me comes an Indian gentleman who screams, "Let me through! I'm late for my flight!" Behind him is his wife and six, yes six! children. Small ones. Each with its own carry-on. Luckily, the dude right in front of me refuses to let the guy through, so we progress as expected. Then, suddenly, the dude in front of me yells for the security guard to reverse the belt through the x-ray, because he needs to get something out of his bag, so the rest of us, who have our stuff lined up on the counter, have to back up...we can't without stuff falling on the floor. I tell him we can't, that there's no room. "I have to get something out!!" he yells in my face. He actualaly reaches inside the scanner and tugs out his guitar case, opens it, pulls out a paperback novel (I kid you not) and allows the line to move on.
Finally getting to the gate, I look around for a seat. There are none. It is packed. Uttrerly. It seems that every single flight - and I do mean every single flight - has been delayed. I overhear a woman saying that she'd been at the airport since 4 in the afternoon. A announcement comes over the loud speaker that a plane has landed and people cheer.
My 8:30 flight, which has been delayed to 11:30, shows up at 11:20. We finally board at 12 am. I am between a young woman, drunk, who promptly falls asleep on my shoulder, and another woman, the talkative type, who's not wearing any shoes. As we back out of the gate and rumble onto the taxiway, the pilot comes over the loud speaker.
"Good evening, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to flight 36 out of JFK to Rochester, New York. I apologize for the delay in getting the plane to you, and thank you for your patients. Today's flying time should be a short 54 minutes once we're up in the air. However. It seems we're 45th in line for take off, so we'll be taxiing for about an hour and a half. Hang in there, and we'll get you to your destination shortly after 2."
The drunk next to me wakes up, yanks out her ear phones and shrieks at me, "What did he just say? FUCK!"
True to his word, an hour and a half later, we're airborn. It's a bit turbulant, but easily nothing as bad as other flights I've experienced. Until we started the descent into Rochester. Suddenly, the pilot couldn't keep the wings level, we would suddenly drop altitude, experiencing zero g's for several seconds, only to regain the altitude just as suddenly. I became convinced that the pilot was drunk. All suddenly. As I said.
Shockingly, we landed. My pulse was thudding in my throat. As we waited in the aisle for them to open the cabin door, all the lights went out. The pilot came over the loud speaker again and announced, "I hope you enjoyed your flight. Baggage will be on carousel 5." The drunk next to me yelled, "Carousel 5? Why are you talking about carousel 5? Why are the FUCKING LIGHTS OUT, MOTHERFUCKER?"
I stepped off the plane. It was 2:30 in the morning.
Son of a bitch.
Friday, April 11, 2008
I found this on overheardinnewyork.com.
Don't Hate the Yoplait, Hate the Yoplaya
College chick #1: He told me afterwards that he hadn't masturbated all week but seriously, he came so much that it was oozing out of the base of the condom.
College chick #2: That's so gross.
College chick #1: Yeah but that's not the worst part, it had the consistency of yogurt.
College chick #2, awed: Man, yogurts...
College chick #1: Yeah it was kinda inspiring. Only also kinda horrible.
College chick #2: Wait, if the cum was coming out of the condom, doesn't that mean you might get pregnant?
College chick #1: Yeah I guess, but I feel like that sperm kinda earned it, you know? I dunno if I could complain with sperm that um, fortitudinous.
College chick #2: Good word.
Overheard by: Vicksburg
This is, unfortunately, a conversation I have with patients at least once per month.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I can picture it: artsy stoner home alone, just finishing a spliff. Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail playing in the background. Giggling to himself, muttering "ne!" under his breath, when suddenly, he spies his video camera across the room, and gets a brilliant idea.
Ladies and gentlefolk, I give you Monty Python's "violence inherent in the system" (as interpreted by Brandon Hardesty), starring Brandon Hardesty, Brandon Hardesty, with Brandon Hardesty.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Here's some footage we took up at the country house a while back.
Posted by PrincessPi at 1:13 PM
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Today was NYC's big Wedding Showcase. A young woman who calls herself Super Slut, a confirmed bachelorette, posted a review of the showcase on consumerist.com. I was especially impressed by the last paragraph of her review:
So, did going to the Weddings Showcase change my mind about having a big special day of my own? I mean, I doubt I'll ever find that kind of money to spend on getting my idiot friends drunk for one night. (Especially when Jell-O shots with Georgi vodka tend to do the trick quite well.) But my motto in life is never say never, because I always said I'd never have anal sex, and well, now sometimes I do. So maybe one day, I'll suddenly decide I want to spend my life with one person and have a big open bar party to celebrate that. Hey, it couldn't hurt much more than getting fucked in the ass.
Not that I agree with her, but heh.
Posted by PrincessPi at 7:59 PM
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
This is Ray. She's approximately four years old. She and her sister Stevie came to me back in late 2003. I don't know exactly how old they are. See, originally, they were owned by people in Brooklyn who didn't feed them, so their growth was stunted, didn't care for them, so they've each got scars (Ray's a scarred ear and Stevie a broken tail), but worse of all, they were refused medical attention for a terrible respiratory infection, causing their inner eyelids to fuse shut, in both eyes for Stevie, but in one eye for Ray. Despite everything they went through, they are the sweetest cats I've ever met. They were named for Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder, because they're both partially blind. I didn't name them. The dude at the cat place did; he didn't realize they were girls. They are both very skinny girls, even though they eat like queens. Oddly, Stevie's favorite food is stir-fried broccoli, while Ray will pretty much eat anything.
Ray is a very shy girl. She likes to hide behind the couch, and occasionally get her belly rubbed. Whenever she reveals herself to my BF and he scratches her, she looks at him with an expression of WTF? I can't believe you're touching me.
Recently, Ray developed a condition known as pyometra, where her uterus became infected. She didn't act very ill, but having worked in a vet's office previously, I knew that this condition, when left untreated, is nearly always fatal. I took her to the vet, where she had an ovariohysterectomy. Afterwards, she gained several pounds and became much more social, abandoning her hiding place behind her couch for the most part and joining us on the couch for cuddles.
I feel lucky to have this little girl.
Bubble wrap - every obsessive-compulsive's friend.