i have vanquished a mammoth cockroach

It was late night in the kitchen, when I heard him knock on the door.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm here because I'm a cockroach, and I'd like to terrorize you." He was easily six feet tall, and ugly. Really, really ugly. I mean, so ugly, even his mother probably didn't love him, and that's saying a lot because I've seen some pretty ugly babies coddled by their cooing, loved-crossed mamas.

"Well, come on in," I must have said, although I have absolutely no recollection of it.

When I turned the light on, he moved hastily, though dazedly, towards my stove. With no tool in hand with with to whack him, I made small talk with him, while I shuffled towards the wine rack, keeping a wary eye on him the whole time. Calling it a "wine rack," though, is kind of a euphemism because, really, it's where I store any and everything cylindrical. Like water bottles. And vodka bottles. And Lysol.

"What, um, so... how long have you been in the neighborhood?" I asked, lamely.

"My family's been here for eons," he said, wiggling his antennae at me disconcertingly, and searching my kitchen floor for a dropped morsel or twelve.

"Eons? Really?" I said, perhaps a little too fakely, as he picked up one of his six, hairy legs and made to pivot on it.

But I was faster than he was, and whipped out the Lysol and sprayed him right in the face.

The overwhelming scent of "Fresh" must have pissed him off, because he shoved me against the bookcase -- which is odd, since the bookcase is in the office, two rooms away -- and ran under the stove, which he lifted over his head with one leg.

"THAT. STUNG," he said, clearly miffed.

"Sorry!" I shouted, whined, and moaned all at the same time, while rapidly putting on shoes and searching for the sixteen year old can of Raid I thought for sure I had inherited when my roommate and I split five years ago. No dice. It was Lysol all the way tonight.

He stuck his head out from under the stove again, and this time he was wearing a U.S. Army-issued gas mask. "Fuck you!" he said, and blew past FloJo while sprinting to the fridge.

This wasn't happening to me. I mean, I'm no neat freak, but I do mop my floors.

"Hey!" he said from the safety of the fridge's underside, "Did you know there are some raisins under here?"

"Yeah," I said, chagrined. "I dropped a couple of grapes earlier in the summer. They tasty?"

"Not bad," he said, munching away. I stuck my head down to his level to see if he was nearby. As soon as I stood and backed away, though, he made his fatal error. He stuck his head out again to show me how light and fluffy the grapes-turned-raisins had become.

And I sprayed that fucker with all the Freshness I had.

He spun around in a circle and made a mad dash for the stove. But this time I was ready for him. I was wearing my clodhoppers.

BLAM!

My foot hit the floor and there was no roach underneath it.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

I slammed again, and this time, much to everyone's surprise, delight, and absolute utter horror, he was dead. With his guts hanging out.

And that was the gross part. He had guts. And they were hanging out. And that seemed so Not Right to me that I had to spray the whole affair with Lysol again, just to make sure that it was Fresh.

I'm not a paper towel user, as they're pretty unenvironmental, but there was no way I was going to use and wash a rag on this scumsucker, so I got a paper towel and prepped for the disposal. I was prepared to cover my tracks, and they'd never pin this one on me -- assuming anyone was missing this bastard in the first place.

But one paper towel just didn't seem enough. So I got another. You know, just in case.

And in one well-orchestrated move, the evidence was gone. The cops would never think to blame me. Because only the Freshness remained.

Oh, and this picture:

I share because I care

1. My friends' kids crack me up. Witness why here.

2. I was typing an email the other day and instead of saying that I would process someone's orders, I said I would "process their odors." I am fascinated by what that would entail, much the same way I am fascinated by that experiment they tell you about in college, where people who are related to one another smell the same. It involves ziplock bags and button down shirts worn continuously for six days or something. Stinky!

3. I told a co-worker recently that I was losing my mind. That my sanity was slowly leaking out through my freckles.

4. I know I've mentioned getting a sponsor for my blog -- ideally these guys (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease!), but after seeing this, I'd take Pedigree as a second choice...

am I a crazy cat lady? probably.

Yes, there were lovely sunsets.

Yes, there were ancient ruins.

Yes, there were fabulously good-looking family members.

But most of all, there were cats. Hundreds and hundreds of Greek cats. Stray cats aren't that weird -- I have a family of them in my backyard. But you know what IS weird? Stray dogs. We really don't have them here, and I'm grateful for that. Because if a stray dog gets hungry enough, he might just eat you.

A stray cat would never do that. (would you, kitties?)

yay! bug!

It has not been terribly happy in k8's nyc, so to compensate, I give you this:

i heart cheezburgers

I'm torn. I love cats and I hate text-speak. But the LOLCats at http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/ make me laugh so hard I can't help it.

I lovez dem.

Tiffany got a new secretary!

(I know it doesn't make much sense, but the post title is an inside joke for anyone who came to my improv show last night. Which will teach the rest of you to ignore my invitations, won't it??)

I wish that I could more suavely weave my observations together, but I've come to understand that's not what you pay me for.

So, without further ado:

1. I ripped my favorite shirt today. I was just wearing it and I leaned forward in a not-even-funny-kind-of-way, and two big rips opened up in the sleeve. In an effort to see the silver lining, I told myself that this means that things that used to seem so perfect and wonderful are no longer fitting me. That change is on its way, and it's time to start embracing it, and leaving old paradigms behind.

Or, possibly, I'm turning into the Hulk.

2. I was at a fancy-pants college event tonight and spent about an hour chatting with a very good looking actor-turned-lawyer from the class of 1992. Annoyingly, it wasn't until about 45 minutes into the conversation that he first mentioned his girlfriend.

Has nobody told him? If there's no ring on your finger, you're obligated to mention your ladyfriend in the first fifteen minutes of conversation. It's a rule.

3. I think I'm getting old. On my date this weekend, the guy I was out with asked me if I had a black eye. I almost gave him one in return.

4. This disturbs me. A lot.

5. We all know Justin Timberlake brought sexy back. I would like to say that I, too, have brought sexy back, but alas, all I seem to be able to bring back is my mouse. (There was a rodential glimpse in the bathroom this weekend, making it much more difficult to shower than it usually is on a weekend. None of this helps my social life. Unless I reconsider inter-species friendships...)

link-a-palooza

Good things to look at, listen to, or play with:

First, a really interesting treat from my good friend Ira Glass, especially the first story.

Second, the puppy cam, sent to me by my aunt, which is way too cute for my own good.

Third, a glimpse at the fictionalized children of my friend and fellow blogger, Earl. (The second half is a continuation of a longer, running post, which you may not understand. Focus on the first, adorable half.)

Fourth, something I clearly need.

Fifth, the story of my childhood, cattified.

Sixth, crazy super cheap makeup!

Seventh, lord only knows where I found this.

And lastly, Maisy, my sister's new kitty, who is too cute for words:

news of the day:

I've stopped dating for a while.
I have a mouse in my house.
I just bought a new camera.

This means, of course, that I will be spending a lot of time alone at home, taking pictures of the tail of a mouse (because, man, is that guy speedy!)

aw... cute

Ok, I lied. This is not cute. This is an ugly ass goat.

The end.

a waste of fur

Have I mentioned that I hate my landlord's dog? I mean, there are few things in this world that I really, truly, gut-burningly hate, and that little yip-dog is one of them. He's a Rottweiler shrinky-dink cooked in the microwave with a side of ANNOYING. (Best served about two hours before you actually have to wake up.)

I have tried to find the small, obscure corner of my heart that this early-morning-barker could occupy, but to no avail. (One corner's full of snotty spit recently coughed up onto the sidewalk, one of litterbugs, one of drunken NYU students and the fourth is reserved for my door-slamming neighbors.) Sorry, pooch, no vacancy here.

Especially not after this morning.

I left my apartment around 8am on a Saturday morning (which, in and of itself seemed cruel enough to me) and opened the front door of the building to find my landlord and his little shit coming back from a walk. I stepped aside so that they had easy access into the "courtyard" (really just a garbage can hang-out place) and as I stepped out of the way, Kujo Jr. charged me, jumped my leg AND SUNK HIS YAPPY LITTLE TEETH INTO ME!

No, he didn't break the skin (lucky little fuck), so I felt ok rejecting my landlord's advice ("go to the hospital"). But I did charge back upstairs, sobbing (more from the surprise and outrage than anything else), to douse my entire leg with alcohol and smother it in neosporin.

"Don't you think he's old enough not to be biting anymore?" I asked with a painfully condescending tone in my voice.

"I'm thinking, actually," my landlord stammered, as he backed his way out of my apartment, "of shipping him upstate to my son."

"Good!" I shouted, as I slammed the door for my neighbors' early-morning enjoyment. "Get that fucker out of here!"

(Ok, ok. You all know I didn't actually say that. But boy did I think it.)

And the funny thing? When I called 311 to find out what the procedure is when you get a dog bite (what your rights are, etc.), they transfered me to the Poison Control Center.

Just think! I could have gotten Yipshit Poisoning! What a close call!

cats and dogs

My brother in law sent me this, and while you've probably seen it (or something like it) a thousand times already, I was charmed and entertained by it no less:

DOG DIARY
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

CAT DIARY
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmatesand I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets.

Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt todisgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouseand dropped its headless body at their feet. Ihad hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescendingcomments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hearthe noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due tothe power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

This morning I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of mytormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try thisagain tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.

The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems tobe more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with theguards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captorshave arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.

For now...Cat

cat show 2007!

Remember last year, when I went to the cat show? Well, I went again this year! And, while I'd like to say it was even bigger and better than last year, it was actually pretty much the same. Lots and LOTS of cute kitties, and lots and LOTS of weird freaks who owned and ogled them. (ourselves included)

I went with my friend Larissa:

and we let Toonses drive us there:

(I don't know if the picture is big enough, but in my copy at home, you can see something that looks oddly like a snaggle tooth hanging out the left side of my mouth. It is, in fact, my gum. But I like the idea that the cat's driving was so bad it made my teeth fall out!)

Unlike last year, when we saw no Feats of Agility (as we were promised by the program), this year, we saw some attempts at feats of agility. (These are not circus cats and don't seem to be interested in winning prizes for said feats of agility, which included jumping over bars and running through tunnels.) This guy was giving it a good go, but just got kind of bored and sat down in the middle of it:

Then, later, after the Agility Inducer had given up and put the bell/feather-on-a-stick contraption down, this cat showed it who's the boss:

(That was just about the most agile thing this guy did, anyway. That, and lose his tail somewhere...)

There were several big bins like this one in the joint:

Unsurprisingly, Madison Square Garden smelled a bit like cat pee. (And when I say "a bit" I really mean "a lot.")

The guy with the best job? This guy:

I think he might not have spoken English. I got in the picture and asked him "how's it going in there?" and all I got in response was a thumbs up. I said, "At least it's not too hot out." Again with the thumbs up. "Are you not supposed to speak?" A little dance that involved thumbs up and moving around.

Better that than being groped by a guy in a kitty suit...

Some exclusively kitty pics (separated for those of you who hate this kind of thing...)

So, remember the Secret of Nimh? (One of my all time favorite cartoons of childhood, even though it's totally disturbing, and populated with rats.) The cat in that movie is named Dragon, and at one point, the mice (and/or rats, I forget) are walking around the kitchen, right past the sleeping cat. And all of a sudden, the cat's one eye starts to open, but his head's all upside down... anyway, it's a freaky moment in the film if you're rooting for the mice/rats. (and you are, if you're human). Long story short: This is the actual Dragon:

And this is the cat who reminded me of him at the Cat Show:

Adorable Pumpkiny Kitten:

Beautiful Sleeping Fluffball:

There are more. If you'd like, I can email them to you. Cat Show is a weird, weird experience, but just chock full of cute.

I can't help it. I just love the cats.

mrrrrrrrrrrow! mrrrrow! murp! murp! murp!

Wondering about the subject of this post? That's what everything I'm writing here would sound like if Sebastian, the cat I'm kitty-sitting, were to tell you about it.

To say he's a chatty kitty is to say that vanilla softserve with sprinkles is the best thing since vanilla softserve plain. (duh.) He's a champ conversationalist. An outstanding orator. A prodigious prolocutor, if you will. (And I won't blame you if you won't.)

Here's what it's like to come home:

"Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow? Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow! MURRRRRRRRROW! mruw! murp! Mrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooow!"

"Really?"

"Mrrrow."

"Seriously?"

"Mrrow."

"Hmmm, I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Mrrow!"

"Yes?"

"Mrrow!?!"

"No!"

"Mrrow!"

"Mrrow!"

"Mrrow!"

The end.
-------------------------------------------
I got this over email and found it funny and charming.

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Now men.... men are like a fine wine.

They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.
-------------------------------------------

If this blog could have a corporate sponsor, I'd like it to be the Shick Intuition Razor. Holy crap, I'm in love with mine!

Now, I am one of the She-who-has-difficulty-getting-a-close-shave-in-her-pitty-pits clan (we have our own tartan) and this razor has changed my armpits' life forever! Yeah, it's expensive (which is why I want it to be my corporate sponsor), but it's TOTALLY worth it. (I got my first one free in the mail, anyway!)

Really, go out there and boldy purchase yourself one. Even if you don't need a razor yet (because yours hasn't RUSTED sufficiently.... guilty!), this will be a worthwhile purchase. Because you know why? No need to purchase shaving cream, either!

I know, this shit's incredible!
-------------------------------------------

Date Alert!!

I have two dates coming up with new gentlemen in the next week or so. And they're both FUNNY!

Maybe not as funny as this, but I'm hoping they're better looking that that, too.

take that, mouse!

So, remember how I had that dead mouse? And how it was very decidedly only one mouse?

Yeah, his cousin came to visit me recently.

And pooped. All. Over. my kitchen.

Ugh! There is nothing more disgusting, insidious and just-plain-creepy than a kitchen covered in mystery mouse doo doo. Ok, not covered. I didn't have to mow my way through a field of kitchen poo, but I did have to clean EVERYTHING within three feet of poo just so I didn't get scheeved out.

I washed all the tupperware that houses my food (which had little mouse treats on them), and then washed the area around the microwave (where the turds were most abundant) and then to shifted the ironing board so it wasn't leaning up against the shelf with the microwave (because it had a telltale poo on it, too).

I'm telling you, there was poo everywhere! (see above disclaimer)

I went to bed and dreamed scheevey mouse-invading dreams, and woke up at 5:30 in the morning, terrified that I'd step in poo (or dead mouse) on my trip to the bathroom.

When I woke up this morning and checked the microwave? Poo free!

Take that, mouse! Why not move in with the doorslammers next door (who don't seem to be moving out any time soon -- in fact, they just got a new couch! WTF?!?!)

I just hope that the mouse doesn't realize that the kat(e)'s away this weekend...

kat(e) and mouse

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch watching a movie when I heard this funny sound coming from my radiator.

munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch

"Oh great," I thought, "I've got a mouse."

So I check out the radiator, the curtains, the little draft dodger I made out of fabric and rice (to keep the cold weather out when I need to stick my wireless receiver out the window to use the internet... ahem, thanks neighbors!) and I see nothing. But the sound persists.

munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch

I take to acting like the Clapper. Everytime I hear the sound, I clap, and it stops. (Mind you, this is a very disruptive way to watch a movie, but whatever, it's just me.)

munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch(CLAP!)

That night, I go to bed, and leave a Test Piece of Cheese out, to see if it walks away the next day. (I'm pretty sure it ran.)

"Which of your cats is the best mouser?" I ask my friend Lisa, who has four cats, the next day.

"Oh, Bjorn, definitely. One day I came into the apartment to find all four cats [who don't get along] sitting next to each other at the radiator, and I just knew we had a mouse. Bjorn caught it, and tormented it for hours before it finally died. So, yeah, he's the best mouser."

"Can I borrow him?"

"Oh sure, yeah, he'd love that!"

So a few more days pass catlessly, and I go to put my receiver out the window again, and I notice that somone (and I'm not naming names) has munched a hole through the fabric of the draft dodger and has eaten a good two inches worth of rice. I immediately close up shop and shift the smorgasboard to a container in the kitchen.

No more munching. No more mouse.

Or so I thought.

I got home last night around 12:30 and really had to pee. So I doffed my coat, kicked off my shoes, ran straight for the bathroom and let out the girliest shriek I've heard in weeks.

There, in the middle of my bathroom floor, like an errant turd or cat-less hairball was my mouse. He looked like one of those scruffy cartoon guys who crawls through the desert on his hands and knees, croaking out, "agua" before he just collapses and dies. Or maybe, I thought, he's just sleeping. I stomped on the floor and said "HEY MOUSEY MOUSEY!" really loud near his ears just to make sure he wasn't going to wake up and charge me.

After a round of "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod" and "where's my imaginary boyfriend!?" I realized I had two choices -- I could wake up my landlord at 12:30 and wait half an hour for him to put some clothes on and wake up enough to deal with the problem, or I could handle it myself.

I'm a strong, independent gal, I can do this, I thought. (But boy, do I wish I didn't have to, the girly-shrieker in me added.)

I turned on the light in the bathroom to better assess the situation, and the bulb blew. So now I had to clean up a DMC (dead mouse corpse) in the dark. Awesome. I got my little emergency light and hung it over the towel rack. That just created weird, spectre-like shadows that didn't help the situation.

I was really tempted to use my new spatula, but I didn't want death to linger on my pancakes, so I opted instead for my dustpan. I covered it in a layer of saran wrap, and grabbed an empty Luna Bar box from the recycling. With one deft swoop (which, in my mind, took forever) I flung the DMC into the box, and covered it with the lid.

Then I trotted down the stairs, holding this mousey coffin as far away from me as possible, chanting "gross, gross, gross, gross, gross" with every step. I deposited the box (and the mouse, and, adeptly, the saran wrap!) into the trash, put the lid on the can and walked away.

Then I peed. But only after I put on slippers. There was no way I was going to step in Death in my bare feet!

I'd like to say I feel like a stronger person for having had to do this, but really, I just feel kind of creeped out. The mouse was cute, I didn't want it to die necessarily, or if I did want it to die, I wanted it to be in a nice field somewhere, not in my bathroom. But more than anything else, I really hope this mouse was a HE mouse and that he was an orphan, a rebel, a solo-flyer.

Otherwise, I'm calling Bjorn.

cat and mouse

I don't know if I mentioned this yet, but I recently started working with Gotham City Kitties, hosting their myspace page (where you should all go and instantly befriend us), their blog and hopefully some more writing and helping where I can.

GCK is composed of a number of people, but I'd venture to say that there are far more cats involved than people. The key player is this fabulous woman named Elizabeth, who is both the rescuer and the shelter in one. I visited her apartment this weekend, and it was awash with kitties. I mean, kitties, kitties EVERYWHERE. And I want them all.

Or, at the very least, I want them all to have good loving homes.

This is where you come in.

Please, PLEASE tell your friends, families, coworkers (unless they're dumb), neighbors, or anybody you know who needs a cat -- please tell them to contact Gotham City Kitties. You can visit us online at www.gothamcitykitties.org, at myspace (once you all become our friend), or you can call Elizabeth at 917.653.9033, or email us for adoptions at adopt@gothamcitykitties.org

Not sure you want to commit to a cat long term? Become a foster home! Keep as many as you want for as long as you want, or until someone else wants them!

Can't even do that? That's cool. Just tell your friends. And if you can't remember any of the info for GCK, just point them to me. I'll get them in the right direction.

Here are some of the kitties I met this weekend (and no, not all the GCK cats are tuxedos. Just these guys. The rest come in all colors, shapes and sizes):

AJ, who would very much like a house without all these other irritating cats in it.

Theodore, who would love nothing more than to kiss you all day long. He will actually run up the front of your body, just so he can nestle in the nook of your neck. Extremely adorable. (until your neck smells like cat nose)

Theodore's sister, Eleanor (no, not his cousin, but close enough), who was uncharacteristically shy this weekend, until the other couple who were browsing for a kitty left. (maybe she was having a bad hair day and didn't want to be in pictures)

There's another beautiful cat who is a diluted calico -- most calicos are white, black and orange, the diluted ones are (as I artistically like to put it) cream, smoke and honey. But I told Thea that the cat was a diluted calico and she thought I said a "deluded calico," which made us laugh, thinking about deulded tabbies walking around talking about themselves as calicos. (yes, we went to the cat show together! so what?!)

One last urgent plea:Would anyone want to foster a 3 year old mommy cat and her 2 year old daughter? Mommy is solid orange, (which is odd for a female) and the girl is a tabbie/tortie combo. If so, please contact Elizabeth at 917.653.9033.

happy groundhog's day!

Here in New York, we like to think of ourselves as mutli-cultural, pan-ethnic, and for the most part, pretty open minded.

As such, we like to rely on weather predictions from a small furry guy named (and I'm not kidding about this) Staten Island Chuck.

This cutie pie lives in the Staten Island Zoo, and apparently predicted an early end to winter this morning, much to the delight of schoolchildren and mayors alike.
Staten Island Chuck is famous, ranking up there with Punxsutawney Phil:

Dunkirk Dave, Shubenacadie Sam

Wiarton Willie, General Beauregard Lee

and Peewee the Woodchuck. (Are female groundhogs unreliable, I wonder? And what's Peewee the Woodchuck doing being a groundhog?)

I'm not 100% sure I believe him (he seems a little camera-happy to me) but I sure wouldn't mind an early spring, especially seeing what we have to look forward to for the next week or so:

According to NY1 (the news channel of choice!), Chuck has only been wrong four times in the last twenty six years. (hell, I've been wrong four times in the last twenty six minutes) And apparently, all the groundhogs have predicted an early spring this year. Conspiracy? Or are the groundhogs really just pawns in a more deliberate, da Vinci Code type affair?

Inquiring minds want to know... but can't really be bothered to find out.

hold onto your hats, kids, because Thea and I went to the CAT SHOW!

That's right. My Sunday was CAT-TASTIC! Thea and I got ourselves to Madison Square Garden for some feline loving. And boy did we get it in spades!

We were so excited, there was almost no controlling us (especially Thea, who is worried that by having gone to this convention, we are now definitely going to grow up to be Weird Old Cat Ladies, instead of there being any doubt. She might be right.)
First thing we saw was this guy, in the Feats of Agility Ring (which, I think was just actually called the Agility Course, but which sounds more exciting and dangerous as the Feats of Agility Ring, don't you think?):

I did not fall instantaneoulsy in love with him, as I prefer my cats with fur. But then we saw some awfully cute guys.

Like Grouchy Kitty:

And Cutie-Pie Hammock Kitty:

Roll-Up Ears Kitty:

Fluffball Kitty (a prize-winner, no less):

Actually, there were a large number of prize-winning cats there, and Thea and I found it kind of sad, because there were ribbons out there saying "Ninth Best Cat" or "Seventh Best Cat." I'd almost rather be ribbon-less than Seventh Best.

There were a buttload of fluffy kitties there. Like this Cage O' Fluff (with no fewer than four inhabitants):

Or Wadded Up Fluffy Kitty:

Or Fluffy Satan:

And there were a surprising number of Squashed Face Kitties (I think they're called "Exotics") as well. They all cracked me up a little. This guy was really cute, and kept trying to touch Thea through the mesh (and the Seventh Best Ribbon)

This one just makes me giggle:

But if we were worried about being weirdo kitty ladies, we could rest assured that there were folks out there odder than we were.

Because Jellicles Can and Jellicles Do (Go To Cat Shows):

(The next one needed some clarification, so I gave her an outline so you could see what she was wearing)

Yes, it's a cat mask. And her baby had a matching outfit on, too. Dad was there as well, but I think he was on drugs.

So, yeah, we watched the Hollywood Cat Training Show. We wanted to see the daring feats they'd promised. Instead, we got a cat playing the piano. (which was actually cute (and very far away)):

The whole event was truly odd. Cat breeders are, by nature, I guess, strange people, and bad dressers. And not svelte, generally. There were more snacks and treats there than in the grocery store. At one point Thea showed me a cat and I showed her the brownie on top of its cage. We almost ate it.

Speaking of the cages, these things are what you'd get if you crossed Long Island in the 80s with Florida mobile homes and then shrunk them:

And now, for a parade of cute. First in the Main Coon Fashion:

(this guy's head was about the size of a grapefruit. he was GINORMOUS!)

And then, in the Generally Adorable Fashion:

Then in the Don't Bother Me, I'm Sleeping Fashion (perhaps the neighbor cats were slamming their cage doors):

And my favorite kitty, who we called Perm Kitty:

Did we have the time of our lives? No, probably not. But it was way more fun than grocery shopping!

And I'll let you guess who sponsored it: