When the Inmates Run the Asylum…

10:30 PM Missus Chica surrenders her drafting chair to me in the studio. She puts away oil pastels, and shuts off the stereo.

10:33 PM Sounds of dental hygiene echo from the master bathroom, gargling and such. I remain in the human sponsored warm spot conveniently located in drafting chair.

10:39 PM Observe pasty white naked person Missus Chica sprinting from master bath to master bedroom.

10:42 PM Observe pasty white naked person Missus Chica settle into bed, and ever so briefly pause to scratch crotch before stretching out.

10:44 PM Missus Chica reaches for this book on the night stand. If you must know, it is an adequate science fiction read. Easy to read and easy to put down when tired.

10:45 PM Detecting an opportunity, I make my move, and jump on the foot of the bed.

10:46 PM Sighing deeply and submitting to my advances, Missus Chica fluffs the cover at her feet.

10:47 PM Ignoring her uh, cough, ineffective hint dropping, I settle conveniently upon her her uh, wine-filled bladder.

10:48 PM Missus Chica sighs deeply and rolls her eyes like she really means it. I throw her a tiny bone and shift ever so slightly right.

10:58 PM Missus Chica says her eyes are too tired to continue reading, turns off the light and rolls onto to her left side. Regrouping quickly, I reposition myself so I am nestled neatly in her right arm pit, with my head on her shoulder.

10:59 PM Overcome by the desire to bathe, I change position, and begin shaking the mattress with zealous licking.

11:05 PM – 11:13 PM The Missus changes lounging position multiple times, forcing ME to regroup and also change bathing positions multiple times.

11:18 PM Return to original position. Missus laying on side, Yours truly, in the classic turkey leg bathing pose, carefully balanced on top of the Missus.

11:20 PM Mister Hombre arrives in master bath and begins preparing himself for bed.

11:23 PM Mister Hombre lifts me from my lofty perch and places me on the floor, gently urging me in the direction of the door. Hmmmph!

11:24 PM Nobly, I take the hint and exit the master suite. Vindictively, I go to the kitchen and attempt to tip over the water bowl. Bowl to heavy so I push it around the tile floor and splash the wall to express my displeasure.

11:45 PM I jump back on the bed and commence bathing ritual.

11:47 PM Mister Hombre shoves me off the bed.

11:58 PM I jump back on the bed and commence bathing ritual.

12:04 AM Mister Hombre shoves me off the bed.

12:45 AM I jump back on the bed and commence bathing ritual.

12:57 AM Mister Hombre shoves me off the bed.

1:33 AM I jump back on the bed and commence bathing ritual.

1:48 AM Mister Hombre shoves me off the bed.

2:15 AM I jump back on the bed and commence bathing ritual.

2:22 AM Mister Hombre shoves me off the bed.

3:45 AM I jump back on the bed and commence bathing ritual.

3:47 AM Mister Hombre shoves me off the bed.

4:05 AM I jump back on the bed and settle.

4:07 AM Missus Chica reaches for a bottle of water on the night stand and accidentally bats it to the floor by mistake.

4:08 AM All occupants of the bed, sit up and yell in unison, “what the hell?”

4:09 AM Missus apologizes profusely. Occupants of bed settle.

5:15 AM Dogs next door begin barking at the the bogey man, a leaf in the wind and later a jogger. Missus Chica groans and rolls over.

5:20 AM Missus Chica rolls over.

6:04 AM Dirty GIrl walks through the master suite, announcing the arrival of morning.

6:20 AM Dirty Girl howls at the bunny grazing in the back yard.

6:30 AM Alarm beep, followed by profanity indicating the Missus displeasure. Alarm disengaged.

6:32 AM – 6:48 AM Missus Chica alternates between staring at the ceiling and tossing and turning.

6:50 AM I began my morning bath so I can freshen up before breakfast.

6:51 AM Missus Chica mumbles, “Fuck it” and crawls out of bed.

Poetry Friday: College Life

The ever so brainy Mona has challenged us to peruse the stacks and accept the calling of higher education. This weeks interpretive content is the college experience.

Poetry Friday: Weather

Mona, our lovely temptress and hostess extraordinaire has offered up another high concept for Poetry Friday. This week, Mona poses the concept, weather for our consideration.

I confess, I’m something of a pussy when it comes to weather. Rain? Well, it makes me melt just like the witch in that cartoon the Wizard of Id, uh wait, I mean Elphaba in Wicked, or was that the Wizard of Oz? Thunder storms? I wouldn’t know, because my furry ass is safely wedged beneath a cheap coffee table. Snow? Uh, Yeah, right, like I’ve ever experienced snow. Hell? Sure, that was when Mrs. One Eye took one for the team. Wait you said, hail, never mind…

I’m should call in the Missus. She has more experience with weather than I…

*******
Weather. Hmmmmmmmm.

We rarely had snow in the region I spent my youth. Maybe once every ten to fifteen years. Snow flurries brought hope to ten year olds fantasizing about staying home from school drinking coco.

When I was fifteen, we had just enough snow to cover the ground. No small feat in an region where air conditioning is frequently operating on Christmas. Beneath the white blanket carefully lain by Mother Nature, rest a thick layer of pine straw.

My sister and I had just finished breakfast when our cousin arrived with his ATV. We tied an old inner tube to the ATV and took turns towing each other around the snow covered yard. The yard was full of pine trees, and periodically the inner tube rider would find himself picking bark out of his hair and racing to catch up with the inner tube. After the snow melted, the recklessness continued, on the thick layer pine straw.

By lunch, everyone was cold soaked. We retreated indoors to warm up by the fire, red-assed and completely euphoric about a real snow day.

Dining A la Cat

Several months ago, Dirty Girl and I were left to our own devises as the Mister and Missus departed to the coast for a long weekend of R and R. Most of the time, we have more fun remaining at home sans adult supervision. Provided, of course, the neighbors don’t call the cops and bust up the party.

In my infinite feline wisdom, I fail to see the difference between a few domestic house cats, getting their drink on, getting their snack on, dancing on the kitchen counter, and tossing water balloons into oncoming traffic is any less respectable than a cluster of uptight wasps sipping cheap domestic beer, discussing the gas crisis, lamenting they might actually have to downsize the behemoth on wheels because it is simply too expensive to cruise around the ‘hood searching for their kids so they can make it to midweek church. After all, it simply too hot in the south to walk three houses down and retrieve your kids on foot. My gawd! what would the neighbor’s think?

After sorting through photos on the camera’s memory card, I concluded Dirty Girl and I were screwed. This was clearly a vacation for cats. I can’t comprehend why we weren’t included? It couldn’t have anything to do with my predilection to getting car sick or Dirty Girl’s lack of restraint when it comes to singing with the radio….

Within the human populace there seems to be an unwritten rule that states when one visits the coast on is required to consume copious amounts of fresh seafood, unless one is deathly allergic. The kookier the coastal restaurant, the better.

Under ordinary circumstances, you couldn’t bribe the Missus with an ornamental fish to set foot in a restaurant that features plastic entrées on the entry gate, but apparently the rules are different for seafood than pub food.

The Mister doesn’t typically care for dining establishments that have so many rules posted in the dining area, so I found it interesting they would eat at this restaurant. Now that I consider it, I think the same instructions have been issued around our own dinning room table, judging by the absence of people food from my diet.

I suppose there might have been a legitimate reason for posting. In my and Dirty Girl’s defense, we have exceptional table manners and superior conversational skills. Countless humans have been deprived by failing to include us on their dinner party lists.

It appears the appetizer menu had unusual offerings. Why settle for shrimp cocktail or raw oysters when you can dine on gator treats?

My mistake, the treats are actually for the gators swimming in the concrete pool. I suspect this is a big draw for midwesterners. You haven’t lived in the south until you’ve been chased off the seventeenth green by an nine foot gator. These guys are just golf course attendants in training they less than forty inches long.

One has to wonder how many uses a cane pole has. Maybe the guest were using them to construct lean-tos or fish for cars in the parking lot.

Ah yes, the main event, low country boil! A steamed platter stacked with mussels, snow crab legs, crawfish, shrimp, jonah crab claws, corn on the cob and new potatoes. Forget about dining utensils, a drop cloth is more useful.

As if the seafood wasn’t enough to keep one engaged, there was this lovely view from the dining room dining dock.

The Missus was hesitant to utilize all the amenities. As this sign clearly states, you can catch crabs in the restroom.

There were even bed and breakfast accommodations for distinguished guest, as well as a encouragement for parents to take a little responsibility.

No coastal dining experience is complete without lessons in French and dining etiquette.

Maybe it was a complete accident Dirty Girl and myself were excluded from the guest list…

Poetry Friday: Cut

It’s F-R-I-D-A-Y! But not just any ordinary Friday. It’s Poetry Friday. The omnipotent Poetry Friday monarch, the lovely Mona has offered up the word, cut.

When one does a drawing of a sculpture by another artist, calling it art is a bit iffy, so we will call this week’s contribution a figure study. This sketch is of a bronze statue from James Park a lovely recreational space in the windy city, Chicago. This figure epitomizes cut. I doubt there was a single relaxed muscle on the entire figure.

A secondary offering of Peter Murphy, Cuts you up.