AB’s got a couple of ADORABLE kittens up for adoption. I will not drive to Texas and get those kittens. I will not drive to Texas and get those kittens. 5 cats is more than enough. 5 cats is more than enough. (If I keep saying it, hopefully I’ll start believing it) And speaking of cute cats, Bonnie’s killing me with the great pictures of her gorgeous cats. Also, while I’m talking about urban legends and the like, I need to mention that apparently the Mate Match thing I put up last week is an urban legend as well. The only reason I know that is because reader Kinzie, among others, mentioned that they hoped the couple got the free trip. I decided to see if there was anything on WBAM’s web page, and imagine my surprise when I discovered there IS no WBAM in Chicago. WBAM is in Alabama. So I did a quick search on Snopes (which is The Shit) and found the page I linked to above. Ah well. It was still funny as shit.

So, right on track as we head toward the PMS Zone, the cats are starting to get wild, as they do every month at this point in my menstrual cycle. It’s got to be the hormones in the air, that’s all I can guess. They’ve started with the wild running-back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth-for-no-reason thing, and have begun picking fights with each other. I’m only thankful that we don’t have a full moon coming up until the Saturday after I start my period, because then they’d really be wild, running at walls and biting my ankles, and the like. This morning Spot – the most mild-mannered cat who will avoid a fight if he can (but if someone picks a fight with him, he’ll flatten them) saw Miz Poo walking across the bedroom. He went flat and crawled across the bed to the edge, watched for a few minutes, wiggled his ass, and jumped on her. That’s the sort of thing that only happens when those pre-PMS hormones are running rampant. Speaking of the cats, I’ve been singing a lot to them lately. I was brushing my teeth last night, looked down and saw Miz Poo, and sang “Pootin’ tiiiiime!” to the tune of Closing Time. Fred burst out laughing. The other night, I sang “Tubby, Tubby” to the tune of Monday Monday, and then “Every other cat, every other cat, every other cat in the house is fiiiine, yeah. But whenever Tubby comes, but whenever Tubby comes, you find me cryin’ all of the tiiiiime.” What? Are you implying I need a life?
The spud called this morning. I talked to her for 13 minutes, and it was like pulling teeth. I did hear that they’ve apparently hit every restaurant in town, and that today is an R&R day. They went to Downtown Disney twice and are having a barbecue tonight. They’re going to make cookies. All of these facts were interspersed with long, long silences which I tried to fill by telling her about the cats or Fred or ask questions. Either she hates talking on the phone as much as I do, or she just hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet, I s’pose.
“Hey, bebbe. Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again? Rwowr.”