We sure do love us some cats.

Have I mentioned the unbelievable feral cat population out here?  There are about 473 cats per person.  Give or take. 

When we first moved here, we started feeding our cats on the porch.  BIG mistake.  So, since we hung out a big neon sign saying, "Hey, cats!  Come here and get some free food, and HEY!  Why don't you do us a favor and take a huge dump under our porch?" we have been totally and completely inundated.

It's simply ridiculous.  We are totally those crazy people with all the cats.

We adopted our last stray cat like this:  Phoebe opened the door and let her ass inside.  Thanks, kid!

So now we have anywhere from 3-5 or 6 cats that we feed on a regular basis.  BUT DON'T WORRY.  Only four of them are allowed inside.  See?  We're not THAT crazy.

Oh, and did I mention?  One of the four is hugely pregnant.  She's going to drop a litter any second now.  Bryan has strongly indicated to me that we will not be adopting one of her kittens.  His faith in my willpower to say no to a baby kitten (and my ability to coerce and cajole him into letting me keep one) is, well, cute.

Maybe I should just invite some people over, and have some tacos.  Cat-style. 

Thanks, universe.

Just when I go  and write a post about how boring things are, and how nothing has happened around here lately, something happens.  I should've known better than to tempt the gods like that.

Yesterday we took a trip into the Big City.  When we got home it was pouring down rain, and the babies were both asleep in the back of the car. I took Phoebe, and Bryan took Charlie.  They both had jackets on, but I didn't want them to get cold and wet (read: I didn't want them to wake up) so I tried to get Phoebe inside as quickly as possible.

Right above the 3 steps to come up onto the porch are several large streams of water -- so OF COURSE I tried to rush through them to prevent Phoebe from getting showered.

You see where this is going, don't you?

Before I knew it I was laid out on the (concrete) steps -- and Phoebe had the rudest awakening of her young life.  I totally fell on top of her, and she smacked the back of her head on the porch.  I didn't even have time to react to grab her little head, or turn myself so she didn't get hit.  Oh, man.  IT SUCKED SO BAD.

She was screaming her head off, and I wanted to scream with her -- what a frickin' TERRIBLE thing to have happen -- especially when you're not even awake.

I hit my knee, elbows, palm, and leg pretty hard on the (sharp concrete -- did I mention that part of the porch is concrete?  did I mention it's sharp?) steps, and couldn't even move.  Bryan was yelling at me to "Get up!  GET UP!" so he could get to Phoebe and check her head, but I literally couldn't move.  I don't know how kids do it, man.  They fall down, scream for a minute, and then they're up and running in 30 seconds.  

I was out for a good five minutes -- just sprawled out on the porch because my KNEE was on FIRE.

Luckily, Phoebe only had a tiny scrape on the back of her head.  I was so ready to rush her to the hospital, but when I asked Bryan if we should take her she started screaming, "I DON'T NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL!  GIVE ME MY PILLOW!" so I knew she'd survive.

I feel far too old.  No more running for me.  Ever.  And in the future, when I say boring?  I mean CHOCK FULL OF EXCITEMENT AND HAPPENINGS.

Naturally. 

Vanilla. As in boring. And very white.

I finished The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and last night I finished Pretty Little Dirty.  Man.  Next up is East of Eden, and I'm thankful that it's a big-ass book.  Because now I'll have to find something new to read.  Dammit.

AND OH MY GOD GUESS WHAT.  I got labels.  Clothing labels.  Like, to put on crap that I make.  It's like, the coolest thing EVER, and almost makes me want to sew.  I'm not going to show you pictures of the labels yet.  I'm going to wait until I use them so you can experience the MAXIMUM EFFECT!*

There's really nothing much going on around here lately (hence the reading), except Charlie is getting 4 new teeth.  As you an imagine, she's the Ultimate Lord of Joy right now.

Marissa requested that I chop all her hair off again.  I did.  She looks adorable.  Nothing new.

Phoebe is just Phoebe.  She likes Play-Doh and bubbles.  And torturing the cats with my shoes.

The weather is warming up, but not enough.  I need to hurry up and start planting stuff.  I decided I'm going to have a container garden on the front porch.  We'll see if I get myself motivated in time. 

I need a new serger.  Mine is totally kaput, which is really hindering my sewing.  I've been eyeing one online that's not too expensive (it's a little over $200 shipped) but I don't know if I want to part with my money.  I really need the serger, but I like my money.  But I really need the damn serger.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

AND THERE YOU HAVE IT.   

*This may or may not involve lasers.  And confetti.  I'm not sure yet.

Books.

I totally jacked this little survey from Zebrabelly. I have no shame. *Look at the list of books below. *Bold the ones you’ve read. *Italicize the ones you want to read. *leave blank the ones that you aren’t interested in. *If you are reading this, tag you're it.

Click to read more ...

Coin slot.

So, Marissa has this thing.  By thing, I mean she can't keep her pants up around her waist.  At all.  Regardless of the type of clothing she's wearing. 

The child perpetually has her butt crack hanging out all over the place.

It could be that I'm grooming her for a life of plumbing, or rescuing stranded cars from the side of the freeway.

Whatever it is, we finally found a name for the two inch area of her crack that perpetually peeks out from her pants to say hi.

While watching an old episode of SNL there was a commercial skit for Neutrogena wash -- for your coin slot.  Yep, you got it -- the crack that won't quit.

Telling Marissa to pull up her damn pants before I stick 50 cents in her coin slot never fails to crack my ass up.  Pun intended.