Posts archived in Kittinks

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Bringing Up Baby

baby carriage
(photo credit: Jeltovski@Morguefile)

I’ve said I would remarry, but really? I think I could be happy as a clam living in sin with my Hotpants lover the rest of my life. The Beatles told us, all you need is love. They didn’t say anything about marriage certificates.

The main reason I’d remarry is, I’d like to have babies and it would be great if they weren’t born of wedlock. But there again, pre-marital baby making is the way in my family. Each of my grown siblings walked the aisle alongside a bride with a baby in her belly; the delivery room staff being very confused when—instead of the standard cry—our little ones were born wailing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

Of the unmarried siblings, two of them are teenage boys whose obsessive preoccupation with video games—to the detriment of their hygiene—effectively ensures they will remain sexually pure until one of them takes a break from Halo long enough to google, How do I stop being a virgin? And the last and littlest sibling? Josie Jo is two. She can’t eat a banana without first mashing it down her frontside, so it’ll be awhile before she’s shamefully impregnated.

Are you surprised I have a two-year-old sister? The thing about my father is, outside of having excellent taste in beer and bratwurst, he is Supremely Virile. My dad is 58. He has sired a slew of children (five) over a time span (30 years) in which his mustache has gone from being righteous to ruinous to righteously ironic, in an easy fashion that would put all but TLC’s Duggar crew and their matriarch’s clown car womb to shame. My father’s daughter in so many ways, clearly I’m not living up to my potential on this one.

Even as I lament the failure of my ovaries to produce the surprise pregnancy my birth control pills are successfully preventing, I still have hope for the future. Maybe the far distant future. In one fantasy, sunlight streaming through sheer curtains, a faded flower-patterned tablecloth under our plates, we’re having breakfast. In my hand, a foggy tumbler of Metamucil. In Hänni Jr.’s, a half glass of organic apple juice. Both of us are trying to pass something—for my daughter, it’s time before the bus pulls up to whisk her away to school; for me, the aged matriarch, it’s last night’s Salisbury steak and pureed peas which have become uncomfortably lodged in my increasingly stubborn intestinal tract. Looking up from her bowl of organic raisin bran, Hänni Jr. asks Momma to make her laugh. I take out my dentures, wincing a little at the relaxed suction and sticky bits of adhesive. I grin at Jr. My smile is all wrinkles and mottled pink gums.

I always thought that by this age I’d be a mom—and not just to hairy babies who lick their own butts and subsist on dry kibble (no offense, cats). Blame it on biology and the fact that in three weeks I’ll be 30, but dang it, I’ve got babies on the brain. Not ready to be a bride, maybe I’ll make a baby the way my mom made me, which is by accident. Yes, it might be nice to have something growing inside me … apart from the unease that one day I’ll find Salisbury steak and mushy peas a delicious and desirable supper, that is.

Some of you probably woke up to the sound of music playing on your alarm clock radio. Still others opened your eyes wide to the happy noise of chirping birds or a sloppy lover’s kiss.

I, on the other hand, was shaken from my slumber by a loud, HORK! HOOOOOOORK!

It seems my darling children, the kittinks, used to being fed at the ungodly hour of 6am were unhappy that Mommy decided to sleep past 7.

Taking matters in to their own hands … er paws … the terrible twosome decided to make their own breakfast…

in my bed …

with their vomit.

Yes, nothing says “good morning sunshine” like watching your cats expel—and then eat (again)—the contents of their last night’s nutritious dinner … especially when they do it on your pink cotton sheets.

When asked what her brother’s barf tasted like, Bella Donna Bad Girl said, “Tastes like chicken.”

This makes sense, being that 12 hours earlier, that’s exactly what Stinky Sphynxy was shoving in his enormous chicken pot pie-hole—kitty stew made with broiled bird.

And I wanted to be angry about the upchuck—I wanted to be mad about the spew on my Serta…. But I couldn’t.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, today there will be no hateoration about the kittink’s high jinks.

There will be no retribution for their early morning antics.

In deed, I will not lay lame blame for my twin angels’ all-you-can-(re)-eat barffet.

After all, there are few things in life more pleasurable than having breakfast in bed.

… Plus they licked up the nastiness before I had a chance to *really* get miffed.

But I digress.

Lately, I’ve been having a hard time getting some quality shut-eye. It might be related to the fact that I’m facing some pretty heady challenges both at work and in my personal life.

Most likely though, I can’t get any rest because my kittens are trying to kill me in my sleep.

Witness the horror that is Stinky Sphynxy trying to astinkysphynxiate mommy by pushing his chunky-ass body up against my windpipe. Meanwhile, his partner-in-crime, Bella Donna Bad Girl does her best Beelzebub impression:

bad_cats.jpgRight: Stinky Sphynxy feigns innocence, “I’m just feeling up mommy’s boobs” he says. This story does not hold, mostly because mommy doesn’t have any boobs. Left: Bella Donna Bad Girl enjoys fava beans and a nice chianti with her organic kibble. Center: Smiley face hides boobs mommy doesn’t have.

And Frankly I’m shocked at the amount off effort that’s gone into killing me. I mean if Sphynx *really* wanted to hurt me,he’d make sure I was standing downwind after mealtime. Now that’s pure torture.

But I digress.
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Did you vote today in the AI Cocktail Countdown? Don’t make me send my catsassins after you. They’ll break your kneecaps.

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Sicko

It's fun to confuse someone who has a head cold. You see, their brains just don't work right, being that they're filled with snot and such.

Angelface, sniffling, looked at our adopted kitty and asked, "Where did Bella come from?"

Matter-of-factly I replied, "Her mom."

Angelface, attempting to clarify said, "That's not what I mean. We know that Sphynxy was born on the streets, so I just wonder where Bella came from before she came to us."

Rolling my eyes, I responded, "Bella came from her mom. You don't think kittens make themselves, do you?"

Angel looking flushed and flustered said, "What I'm trying to say is, before we adopted Bella…"

"Fine," I interrupted. "That's just Fine! If you don't want to talk about the miracle of life, then we'll just say it was the stork. Bella came from the freaking stork okay?! Geez!"

"Oh and by the way," I added, "Santa is real, there's a boogie monster living in our closet, and Mariah Carey is *not* endangering the world's snack cake supply."

Speechless, Angel blinked twice and walked away. His robe clutched tight to his congested chest, my befuddled better half went back to bed.

Poor thing.

Angel may have the head cold, but I suspect I'm the one who's really sick.

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Poop du Jour

Whilst cutting up a hormone-free, antibiotic-free, grass-fed piece of beauty beef, I was sure to save a strip for the kittinks.

(Don’t freak. It’s good for them. Acidic by nature, cats’ stomachs do better with raw meat than Meow Mix … Who knew, right? The Nutrition Nazi, that’s who! Mwa ha ha.)

But anyway, as I watched the cats circle like hungry vultures to road kill, like sharks to their prey, or like Mariah Carey to a buffet line (hee), I just knew that the savory sirloin would really rock their socks.

It would be like Christmas. I would be a wise man. I’d come bearing beef.

So, after a few minutes I’d cleared the butcher block and it was time to present the succulent selection. For Bella, I chose the juiciest, reddest, and most mouthwatering morsel of meat ever seen by man or cat.

Eyes wide with anticipation, my darling Belle sniffed her steak twice, batted once … and then – without so much as giving the thing a lick – sauntered her ass right out of the room.

It was insulting really. Especially since yesterday I caught her barfing up 36 inches of shoelace, most likely fished from a stinking bag of trash.

Oh yeah, and this is gross too:

This morning, after accidentally bumping into it, Bella totally licked her brother’s butt. And that’s bad, because there’s a reason we call our boy “Stinky Sphynxy.”
Stinx_Butt.jpg

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Today is the last day to enter the Randy Jackson What’s Up Dawg Contest. Don’t forget that in addition to the grand prize, I’ll also be awarding boobies!

You like boobies, right? Well, if you love boobies, you should send me an e-mail telling me so. And in that e-mail you should also include your guess for how many times Randy will say “dawg” on American Idol this season! Woo!

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Jedi Nights

Dear hannihaus readers, it is a momentous day indeed. Angelface is away working all weekend so I’ve chosen to participate in an activity that, along with referring to me as “Queen Mistress Supreme”, is on the list of things my husband refuses to do.

Yes dear hannihaus readers, for the next nine hours I will be transported to a time long ago and a galaxy far, far away.

If you speak Geek you probably know what I’m getting at. For anyone who isn’t, however, a thirty-year-old virgin and/or proud owner of the Obi Wan Kenobi Jedi Braid, what I’m trying to say is that I’m going to watch the Star Wars trilogy (episodes 4-6 for those who are nerdy enough to know the difference interested.)

I’m very serious about all this. I’ve got my DVDs strategically positioned for fast ejection and insertion at the end of each episode, and I’ll only be breaking from this Geekfest for one of two reasons:

  1. To grab a beverage of choice – likely something of the organic licorice tea variety
  2. To periodically yell at the cat, “Sphynx, Sphynx, I am your faaaaaather”.

For those of you who are concerned that the latter item could possibly be detrimental to my male kitten’s understanding of gender development – being that Mommy wants to call herself daddy – don’t sweat it. Sphynxy knows who his real daddy is and, accordingly, how real daddies behave…

Yes, Angel has done a very good job of teaching Sphynxy that it’s Mommy’s job to launder the boxers, and it’s Daddy’s job to wear them whilst playing Xbox and scratching his man bits…

spot.jpgbut I digress.

So yeah, to summarize:

  • the Star Wars marathon – it’s on. I’m all giddy, like Mariah Carey at a chocolate crueler convention.
  • The cats –they’re fine. It’s only if I start dressing them like their cousin Spot, (AKA the Jedi Master), that we should be concerned.

Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu… And may the force be with you.

10 comments

Personal Day

It’s 10:57 am on a Tuesday. Do you know where your mistress is?

I’ll give you a little hint. I’m not at work … and I’m sitting in my underwear.

No, I’m not playing hooky and I’ve not been fired for this blog and its irreverent postings about Jesus in his tightey whiteys. I’ve merely been given the day off by the kind folks at A Very Hip Software Company. They are allowing me to fully contemplate and commemorate my recent milestone, my transformation from smart, funny 25-year-old to smart, and still funny, 26-year-old.

I am still funny right, even though I’m a geeze?

But yeah, so far the coolest thing about my unbirthday birthday-day-off is that I actually got to sleep past 5:50am this morning. And I have to say…

Me and sleeping in: we’re reunited and it feels so good.

I can’t believe I actually got to sleep until the very late hour of 9:30am today. The kittens were absolute angels for a change. Bella only tried to wake (or kill me?) once or twice with her cuddle-in-your-face-until-you-suffocate-on-her-fluffy-fur shenanigans. And Stinky Sphynxy, except for a few choice pounces on my appendages, left me pretty much alone. I guess he was occupied with his art project.

Stinky Sphynxy: He’s like a young Van Gogh, except instead of cutting off an ear, he prefers to rough up paper towels… but I digress.

sphynx and paper

(I love that my cats raid the cleaning closet for items to destroy in my absence …but anyway.)

Yes, today. With what’s left of the day I intend to go to the bank, drop off pics for developing, fold clothes, organize my dresser, buy the latest edition of Spin, and – oh yes – I think I shall lay around for a bit and scratch myself – Angelface does this quite a lot on his days off and he seems to derive great pleasure from it.

Welp, no time for blogging. Must start scratching. Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu!

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Cat Burglar

Inquisitive little things, all cats are sneaky by nature. And it’s not that my cats are any more prone to filch than say, Von Krankipantzen’s Yoshi for example, but they are a bit off the beaten path when it comes to the types of things they steal.

Sphynx loves stealing bananas, razors, tank tops and underwear. When it comes to missing bobby pins, bras, arm bands and electronics, Bella is the most likely culprit.

Seriously, sometimes I wonder if they’re setting up shop somewhere. I can just see them crouching on a corner in China Town, looking shady, hocking my crap for cheap from a suitcase.

“Fai dollah fo underpants – they’ve never been worn right side out!”

What really makes Hänni happy is the fact that when given the choice between snaking ocean fish or organic veggies, they will *always* go for the veggies.

Seriously, one time I dropped a bowl of salad on the floor and those cats were on that shit faster than Rosie O’ Donnell on free McRib – and you know that bitch loves her McRib.

Don’t believe me that the Nutrition Nazi’s cats are also quasi-vegetarian? Look here:
green beans

From my freaky, greenbean-filching family to yours, happy Friday dear hannihaus readers!

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Why Don’t You

Rate my kittens? Because it’s more fun than pap smears, high colonics, hangnail infections,and boil lancing all rolled into one!

Bella looking tasty

Sphynx eathing something besides bananas and underpants

Belle and Sphynx all cute and snuggly like

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TP

Some use it to wipe their ass.

Others hijack it from beneath the bathroom sink, desecrate it, and then leave it on display like some sort of glorious and scatological art piece.

The TP in question

Either way, when your last roll of Charmin has been filched by your felines and you’re too lazy to go the store for reinforcements, well, it’s quite simply the shits.