Apparently Cats Are All I Have To Talk About

When we last visited the spectacular Sparkles Plenty household, Maggie the cat was comfortably recovering from having her girly parts ripped from her tiny little body. She had the surgery last Thursday and spent the weekend lolling around the house while we presented her with a variety of pillows so she could pick which one she wanted to sleep on at that very moment.

Monday night -- Memorial Day -- around 8pm I remembered that it was time for Maggie's monthly flea medicine. I toddled off in search of her, and after some looking I found her in the basement contentedly grooming herself. I picked her up and brought her upstairs so The Mister could hold her while I applied a few drops of liquid to the skin on her upper back. As usual she reacted like I'd just dipped her in sulfuric acid, but after a couple minutes she settled down and scooted off to resume her grooming. Around this time I glanced down at my arm and found a small smear of blood on it. This was quite unusual because usually the only time I find blood on my arm is when I've been chopping onions and mangled a finger. My eyes may be burning but I cannot stop slicing because that would mean the onions have won.

After standing around like a stupid turd wondering about the blood on my arm I finally managed to add things up. I became very worried and scurried off to find Maggie. When I did, she was sitting in the bathroom on a blood-spotted rug. Upon closer examination it was obvious that her incision had come open and parts which were supposed to be inside her body were now spilling out onto the floor. She appeared completely unfazed by it and gave me a look all, "I know my intestines are coming out through my stomach, but I'm handling it."

I proceeded to freak the hell out, running around the house in circles squawking about stitches, emergencies, and my general level of inadequacy with regard to caring for living organisms. Fortunately my husband is much less neurotic than I. With his help Maggie was loaded into her carrier and then my hysterical self tore off for the emergency vet clinic like my ass was on fire. Once there I continued to lose my shit. The staff was exceedingly kind, but I have no doubt they're still laughing about that crazy lady who needed Valium like no one has ever needed it before.

They told me that Maggie would undergo additional surgery where she would be reopened, her "stuff" would be put back in, and then she'd be sewn back up. They encouraged me to go back home since there wasn't a thing I could do other than sit there and worry. They said no news was good news and to plan on picking Maggie up early the next morning. I made my way back home and then fidgeted nervously for the next few minutes. I needed to do something, so I decided to pick up where the evening had left off. I lit the grill and threw on some hamburgers. People handle stress in their own ways. Some chainsmoke, some pace the halls. Apparently I barbecue meat.

I got Maggie from the vet clinic early the next morning. She was sent home wearing one of those megaphone collars like that dog from the Nirvana video. It was one of the most pitiful things I've ever seen. But the high point was that a strip of gauze had been put through the loops at the base of the little cone helmet at neck level. The gauze had been tied in a pretty bow, making Maggie look like she was wearing a 23rd century sunbonnet.

Overall she's handling it quite well, even though the widest part of the collar is substantially larger than her head causing her to misjudge distances and crash into walls on a pretty regular basis. It's not hard to tell when she's coming because her approach sounds like someone whacking an empty milk carton against the wall. But she doesn't seem bothered by it, and in a few days she'll be free of the cosmic sunbonnet.

Hopefully after that I can resume my regular stories about elaborate plans to entice bats into creating makeshift caves in our backyard, or me getting drunk and falling off the side of the deck. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss talking about all the stupid shit I do.

All Ovaries In This House Belong To Me Now

Yesterday morning I was trying to drag my sad ass out of bed as my husband was getting ready to leave for work.

"Don't let Maggie outside today. She's acting weird."

"What? Is it time to wake up? Oh sweet lord please tell me it's not time to wake up."

"It's time to wake up. And don't let Maggie outside."

"Huh? Why?"

"She's weird."

"Duh."

"I think she's gone into heat."

"Oh sweet Jesus. I do not need this today. Maybe if I go back to sleep it will all go away."

"Yeah, good luck with that."

"Bastard."

Long story short (too late!), I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and walked into the next room. Miss Maggie Survivor was laying prostrate on the floor and Gloria was straddled on top of her, licking her ears. My first thought was that I had stumbled onto the set of some movie for feline Cinemax, but right away I realized that was a stupid idea. There is no such network, because if there were we would have ordered it for Gloria already.

Maggie spent the next few minutes crouched on her front legs while standing tiptoed on her hind ones to ensure that her butt was constantly in the air. She tottered around on her rear tiptoes, walking backward in circles in order to cover as much area as possible. She presented her feminine wares to every stationary object she could find, and I couldn't call the vet fast enough to make an appointment to get her spayed. I managed to get her booked that same day, and I imagine the neighbors are still talking about the squealing tires they heard coming out of our driveway that morning.

Once we made it to the animal hospital I was faced with the momentous decision of laser surgery or the traditional scalpel method. Laser vs scalpel? Oh hells yeah, it's Laser City, bitches. For someone who will get cranky with her spouse if he buys brand name kidney beans because they cost 39 cents more it's interesting that I'm so willing to drop an extra hundred bucks on enhanced veterinary surgery. But the laser procedure was supposed to be easier on Maggie, and what Maggie the Princess wants, Maggie the Princess gets. I'm very lucky that my husband is much more understanding about veterinary care than I am about kidney beans.

Maggie made it through the surgery just fine, and appears quite unfazed by it all. She's still slightly sluggish at times, but very happy to be home and able to sleep on her favorite pillow. Here she is sporting the feline equivalent of the Brazilian wax:
Gloria was a bit beside herself last night when Maggie wasn't here. Of course she will never admit to that because she tries to be tough and all, but when she sat outside on the back steps for two hours frantically looking around the backyard it was pretty clear that she was worried about her sister. When I brought Maggie home today from the vet Gloria anxiously looked on while Maggie lay on the rug in their favorite play room. While Maggie rested quietly Gloria began grooming her, licking her paws, ears, and head. After she was finished Gloria stretched out directly across from Maggie, about six inches apart, face to face. They both reclined there looking at each other for a couple minutes, at which time Gloria began slowly scooting toward Maggie. She stretched out her paw and gently patted Maggie's face, as if to say she knew exactly what Maggie was feeling. Maggie blinked a couple times and then stretched out her paw as well so that their paws rested on each others'. Then they both purred for a while and went to sleep.

It's moments like that that remind me why sometimes I like animals more than I do humans.

This Nut Didn't Fall Far From the Tree Part 2

For some reason that I can't put my finger on I've been in a rather nostalgic mood lately. I've been looking at old pictures, high school yearbooks, and the size 1 Levi's that I will never, ever be able to wear again unless denim socks suddenly come into fashion. I've contemplated my family history and examined letters and trinkets that have been passed down through the generations. I'm guessing all of this means that either 1) I have a wicked case of PMS and am looking for reasons to cry or b) I'm going to die at any moment.

Throughout the course of this geneological introspection I've reacquainted myself with some of my more colorful ancestors. There was poor old great-great-whatever grandmother who got thoroughly hosed during the Salem Witch Trials and ended up being a very unfortunate statistic. There was my great-mumble-great grandfather, a captain of the Missouri troops in the Mexican American War, a man whose regal picture was inscribed with Died a Glorious Death, a man who I was sure perished in tragic fashion while defending the Alamo or something as glamorous, because Oh My God he died a glorious death! Glorious! I found out later that the poor bastard died of chronic diarrhea. No less a hero, but slightly less "glorious," I'd say.

There was also some goof who was a rather scandalous member of the British House of Lords. I have no idea what the qualifications are for such a position, and while I could research it I would rather spend my time smoking cigarettes. You guys are on your own here. Anyway, considering what's been written about him I'm pretty sure the requirements couldn't have been particularly stringent. He never really accomplished much in the capacity of legislator or representative, but this fool sure did manage to make his mark. According to newspaper clippings that I've read, one day he made his big grand goddamn entrance in the House of Lords carried on one of those fancy stretcher things (I don't know what they're called, but think Egyptian) carried by four "Nubian" gentlemen, eating grapes and wearing "nothing but a blue powdered wig." Fucker was carried into the House of Lords eating fruit naked with blue hair. God.

This is the stock from which I come, you guys. Normally I wouldn't give Mr. Nudie Blue Hair Grape Lover a second thought since it happened a couple hundred years ago, but after a few tequila slammers I'd probably do the naked, grape-eating, blue-wigged thing too. The moron thread runs deep and thick through my family tapestry. That is one of the reasons why I will never procreate. I'm doing it for all of mankind, y'all. Some genes shouldn't be passed on.

Your children will thank me.

This Nut Didn't Fall Far From the Tree

Mother Sparkles and I spent Mother's Day watching The Mister and his cricket club play a match at a local farm. It's a working horse farm where they breed Percherons. I'd never heard of Percherons before I was aware of this farm, and the first time I saw the horses I almost passed out from the gorgeous. Percherons are enormous draft horses, built like brick shithouses, and, in my estimation, look like a slightly smaller version of a Clydesdale.

I have absolutely no knowledge of Clydesdales apart from the holiday Budweiser commercials so I don't know how big they actually are, but they look freaking huge on television. They manage to be intimidating, regal, and graceful all while trotting sassily to the "Here Comes The King" song. I think the only way those horses could be better is if they wore diamond tiaras, satin booties, and passed out free gasoline.

At one point during the afternoon Mother Sparkles decided to take a walk around the farm. I decided to stay parked in my seat and finish my glass of wine. How uncharacteristic of me. Anyway, after a little while she came jogging back and announced that there was a foal in a paddock down the hill. Naturally I jumped up and started running down the hill after Mother Sparkles. (Anyone who thinks I would miss a chance to see a baby horsey is out of their gourd.) I hoofed it (heh!) to the paddock, stumbling and tripping all the way. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was my inherent lack of grace. Who can say?

After arriving at the pasture where the horses were grazing, Mother Sparkles and I gazed adoringly upon the lovely setting, held hands, and took in the beautiful scene.

Mother Sparkles: Do you see the little foal? He's standing behind the big horse, but you can see his big belly and his light brown fur.

Me: YES! I can see him! Oh my gosh he's so cute! It would probably freak the horses out if I hopped the fence and kissed him on the nose, wouldn't it?

MS: [rolling eyes] I wouldn't recommend it, dear.

Me: Boo!

MS: Isn't he cute? He's so small, and they're all so protective of him.

Me: He is adorable! He's got really big ears! I guess it takes time for the horses to grow into them.

MS: Probably. And his legs are still so short! But a lot of young animals take a while before they take on adult traits, though.

Me: True! His hooves are kind of small, aren't they? The other horses have such HUGE hooves. I know they'd be smaller on the young one than they would on the mature ones, but it seems like they'd still be kind of disproportionately large. And that his ears wouldn't be larger than the grown horses.

MS: Yeah, that is strange.

Me: Yeah.

[silence]

Me: Uh, Mom?

MS: Yes dear, I know.

Me: It's a donkey, isn't it?

Too Many Drugs in the 60s Part 2

Me: So Mom, are you having a good Mothers Day?

Mother Sparkles: Yes I am! It's lovely, dear. So much good food, good company... it's a wonderful day. And you're a wonderful daugher, Kristina Michelle.

Me: Awww... Mom! [sniffle]

MS: That has such a nice ring to it. So much better than...

Me: What has a nice ring to it?

MS: Kristina Michelle.

Me: Ah. 'So much better than' what?

MS: What your father wanted to name you.

Me: Really? What was that?

[...]

Me: Mom?

[...]

MS: Siggy Watercress.

I'm a Boring Old Skeezer Who Loves The Bionic Woman

I had just written the most mind-blowingly brilliant entry when my laptop crapped out. It's too late and I'm far too lazy to start again, so you'll just have to take my word on how much it rocked. And it did. Ok, no it didn't. It was just like all my other drivel about the stupid shit I do, but humor me and pretend along.

I just saw on TV that they're remaking The Bionic Woman, and I'm not ashamed to say that I'm practically quivering with excitement. I hope they include a shot in the opening of the her ripping the yellow pages in half, because when you see that you know the bitch means business and you'd better back the hell off. My favorite episode was the one where the evil people (Russians? Communists? Republicans? Who knows.) built human-looking robots and Jamie Sommers was running around inside a nuclear reactor for some reason that I never understood and all these robot clones were dicking around trying to destroy America. Or something. I don't know. But I remember the scene where she ripped off the face of one of the clones and there was this robot with a big metal face and lightbulb eyes and I don't mind saying that I wet my pants a little at that moment.

Does anyone remember the tv show Emergency!? If so, you might recall the hospital they used in the opening credits. That hospital is where I was born, you guys!!!
How exciting is that?!?! Ok, it's not. Oh! And do you remember the shot of the fire station with the big doors rolling up and the truck coming out with the sirens blaring? We used to drive by that somtimes and my parents would always point it out to me, at which point I would beat my palms against the car window and shout "Rampart! Rampart!" Isn't that fascinating? No? Oh, bite me. I'm trying.

So, yeah. That's all I got. Maybe tomorrow I'll re-write my original post. But only if there aren't any cheesy 70's dramas on tv. If there's phonebook-ripping or hospital-showing I'm going to be occupied. I've got my priorities, people.

When in Doubt, Look at the Tiny Outfits

Oh my gosh you guys, it's just a couple days until the most glorious sporting event in the history of forever: The Kentucky Derby! I fear I may have let you down since I haven't provided my legendary insight until now, but I'm only one woman, y'all! You're probably still reeling from my March Madness picks, and who could blame you? Feel free to peruse the Sparkles Plenty archives and have your minds blown. I believe I picked Gonzaga to go all the way. They may have made it to Round 2, but I won't swear to it.

Anyway, I have examined the field for the Kentucky Derby. I've noted their Beyer numbers and studied their fractions, histories, pedigrees, and dosage ratings. Here are my selections, and please don't hesitate to write this wisdom down:

1. Cowtown Cat - Could very well freak the fuck out when faced with the crowds and noise, but appears to have some nice tactical speed. Also the word "cowtown" is pretty sweet. I think I lerrvv him.

2. Circular Quay - Nice low dosage. If it's a fast pace that should work in his favor. Also, the name makes me think of fruity rum drinks and how can you go against that? Don't hate on the rum, people.

3. Tiago - Even lower dosage than Cowtown Cat. I love that, although it might not be a good thing in the Derby depending on the pace. On the other hand I saw him in one of the prep races and he gave me goosebumps as he started from the rear and passed the other horses like they were standing around farting in a field of daisies. I'm confident all the fillies think he's a stud, and don't ever go against the fillies.

So there are my choices. Of course the last time my Derby pick won was in 1994 so some haters might cast aspersions on my handicapping ability. And I couldn't blame them if they did since my picks have sucked butt for the last decade or so. Maybe I will revert to the system I used when I was a five year-old accompanying my parents to a day at Hollywood Park: go with the outfits. I'd take one look at the silks and inform my parents that they needed to place a bet on whatever horse's mount had colors that I thought were the prettiest. They'd indulge me from time to time, and my record was just as good as that of my dad who spent several hours poring over the Racing Digest. So if there's any jockey out there on Saturday decked out in pink and green argyle all my money is going on that bitch, research be damned. And then ya'll can eat my dust.

Yeah.