Welcome to the real world.

Welcome to the real world.

I’ve been feeling completely out of control of my entire life and world recently. I know, in reality, that I have very little control of things as is.

It’s bad when the radio goes to Surface of the Sun and it makes you burst into tears :-$ Hi Hugh you rock my world but I didn’t wanna cry again tonight.

So yes. I’m having a little trouble with these fact things recently. I won’t deny it. Yes, I made a list. Yes, it’s pretty long. But I think I’m pretty boring. And I can’t see why everyone’d wanna read this crap anyway. haha.

Anyway. In honour of the fact that today is my kitty’s birthday.

Fact 8: I’m a cat person.

We’ve always had cats in my house. We started out with Toby who was part of the family before I was. He was a black and white tomcat. Everyone always said he was cranky. I don’t remember him as cranky though. He was good with us kids. We could “pet” him (which as kids usually meant pulling his fur) and he wouldn’t scratch or bite. That cat was a fighter, he was, but damn we loved him. Poor boy had part of his tail sliced off (by accident) with the screen door and many other mishaps. And had many fights with other animals in the neighbourhood. It was a sad day when we had to take him to be put down, but by that point he was really sick and quite old.

Cody came next. She was my baby, even though she belonged to the whole family. I “paid” for my white bundle of fur, from a couple my dad worked with. They’d rescued her from the dogs next door who were terrorizing her. I could sympathise with her there, but that’s another story. She’d try to sneak in my room at night. She’d follow me and meow when I walked to school, and later when I walked to the bus stop. She was only really friendly to me all the time. My cousins used to call her a bitch since she’d bite at them. It broke my heart that night we came back from Harry Potter and found her in the basement. She’d had a stroke and it ended up paralizing her one back paw. The vet did the best he could, reassured us that she wasn’t in pain, and we were able to bring her home and enjoy her love for a few more months. I still miss her sometimes.

Sometime after Cody came into our lives, Missy showed up at our doorstep. In the middle of a horrible cold snap in winter, just before Christmas. That’s how she got her name. Christmas Missy, a shivering mess of brown fur. Dad told us over and over and over not to let her in. We didn’t need another cat. One was enough. And we came home from last minute Christmas shopping to find him sitting in the basement with her curled up in his lap. Oh he got teased for that one, and we had two cats instead of one. And Missy is still quite happy in her… I think she’s 12 now, at least, back home with my parents.

Jake, my baby boy, is my saviour. He’s kept me sane through the horrors that was design school. He’s loved me when I’ve felt completely stuck in a black hole. He’s cuddled and purred me when I’ve needed to be with someone. He’s no angel, that’s for sure, but he is an amazing bundle of orange fur. He was a market kitty, orginally named George. And the minute the girl placed him in my arms, he stole my heart and was mine. Convincing dad and the roommates was a little harder but… haha and since our apartment had a little wooden man named George, that name wouldn’t do. Besides, I didn’t want a cat named George.

He drives me nuts. And he melts me with a single purr. He’s my favourite boy and he’s the only one I’ll willingly share my bed with.

So this might be cheating…

Fact 333: I stabbed a fork into my finger

Most of you know this already. At least, those of you that I talk to often do anyway. But, I think it was Easter weekend, I got a brand new set of utensils for my apartment. I was all excited. They were these silver and blue ones in this nice wire basket sorter. With those pain in the ass little plastic twists that you have to cut off.

Disaster.

Being brilliant (that was a day of the dumbs for sure) and being unable to locate the scissors, I got a knife. Now, I’m not entirely stupid, so I knew well enough to cut away from my body. I managed to cut through the spoons, and the first set of forks with no problems.

I started sawing through the second last piece of plastic. And I shifted my hand to get a better angle. And it worked, it cut a lot faster. Unfortunately I didn’t realise this fast enough. And the plastic broke and my fist smashed into the forks.

Instant pain. And reaction was to curl my fingers and pull them back. And when I brought my hand away from the basket and towards my body, there was a fork sticking out of my pinkie finger. I didn’t think, just reacted, and pulled the fork out.

Blood everywhere. Almost gushing. Just the sight of it made me queasy (and writing about it now is making me squeamish) I grabbed the napkins off the top of the fridge and shoved them around my finger and sat down on the floor before I threw up or something. The world was spinning pretty good at that point haha.

I already had gauze in the apartment. Once I could open my hand again (jesus it hurt), I washed up and wrapped it up in gauze and went to work. Ahaha and preceded to gross everyone out to the point where everyone was telling me repeatedly to go to the clinic. Which I eventually did the next day (I think) when it started to sink in that I couldn’t move it right, that it was a nasty shade of purple and perhaps I did do some bad damage. (Which turned out to be tendon damage which has finally mostly healed)

Now I’ve just got a small scar on my pinkie. And when the weather turns bad quickly (and I’m not looking forward to winter) it hurts like a bitch.

Sweet the sin / bitter taste in my mouth

Been singing along with the radio all night long. It’s Laura’s last day tomorrow and it’s a sad thing. I’m gonna miss her like crazy. I’ve been toying with the idea of painting her something. I know she’d like it. Unfortunately this stupid nagging shoulder/neck pain’s made me quite immobile up top. Hell, I cried while getting dressed this morning, it hurt so bad. Stupid pulling of the muscles. I hate them sometimes.
So needless to say, starting this late was a bad idea. It’s not gonna be finished, that I know. But at least it doesn’t look like total crap right now. So a bonus there. Yay me.

Twas Keiran’s birthday the other day. Happy birthday once more. Heh. I think I’ve said it too much so I’ll stop now.

I really should go to bed.

Sick sucks in Summer

So no long and boring rambles today like Friday

I spent most of last night giggling madly at old clips from Sesame Street on YouTube, such as when the Yip-yip aliens discovered the telephone, or Cookie Monster and his poetry readings, or Cookie Monster stealing Ernies Cup-y cakes… So many giggles.  Endless giggles until there were tears from the giggles.

It might’ve been the fever talking, but damn, I had a good time.

Summer-time memories

Man, the crack of dawn is brutal.  So bright and fuzzy-looking outside this morning…. well, hazy, but it looks fuzzy to me.  Heh.

Going up to the cottage for the weekend.  I’ve still got photos I need to post of the cottage for Keiran.  We’re actually going up Friday night too, instead of the usual mid-way through Saturday. I’m thrilled. Honestly too, not sarcastically.

When I was little, as soon as it was warm enough, it’d be off to the cottage after school on friday and stay until Sunday after lunch.  And it was great.  Especially when both my grandparents were still alive.  I miss my opa and oma.  Opa’d dive off the dock and swim forever and ever and ever, waving, then turning and coming back, splashing me where I sat giggling on the dock.  Oma’d always be willing to play “just one more” game of cards or attempt to teach me one more time to knit.  Or Opa’d pick me up and toss me back on my bed once I’d slid out, both of us laughing (my mattress on my bed when I was little was too big for the frame – great for bouncing on, but it’d constantly be sliding off the bed)

One of my favourite memories from when I was younger at the cottage was when we re-did the lower roof.  I was… maybe 4.  Somewhere between 4 and 5 at least.  I can’t remember exactly.  Anyway, I was young ;) and my opa and my dad were re-shingling the roof (Actually, on after-thought, I think there were a few more people helping, like an uncle or two, but I don’t really remember that part).  And I wanted to be a good girl and help.  Actually, I just wanted to be where all the action was, to have fun with the guys.  I didn’t wanna play in our wading pool on the deck anymore.  I wanted to SEE what was going on.  So I tried to climb the ladder.  My oma would have nothing to do with that.  I wasn’t going up there; I’d surely fall and get hurt (ahahah if it was me now, yeah, for sure!)

So, being the handful that I am, I decided that nothing was going to stop me from getting up there.  After several unsuccessful attempts at the ladder (with my dad and opa watching from the roof, laughing of course!) I sat down to pout.  And plan.  I’m devious, I know that.  And I formed the perfect plan.

I snuck inside, under the guise that I was going to the washroom.  Crept up the stairs and shut the bathroom door, dashing into the room we all shared and climbed onto my bed.  My bed was directly under the window that overlooked the roof they were on.  A few good bounces on the trampoline-bed didn’t quite get me out the window. I was still too short.So I pried the screen off with my fingertips, sliding it to the side.  My sister still slept in a crib at the end of my bed, so I climbed up on the railing of that, stood very very carefully on the edge and leapt – head first – out the window.

I was discovered pretty quickly by the men.  My oma was horrified that I got up there after all and wanted me down.  But opa and dad let me stay.  I was happy a clam up there, sorting nails and “helping” hammer them into the roof.

I miss days like those.