Everyone could use more cats. No, really.

So our black and white kitty, the one that we adopted because Phoebe opened the door and let her in the house, had kittens.

Six of them.

Six more cats.

Six.

More.

Cats.

And of course they're adorable and I just want to carry them around with me in my purse, or maybe the pocket of my overalls, and love them and pet them and name them all George.

So you know what we have to do, right?  We have to keep one.  Because, like I said.  Everyone could use MORE CATS.

Video, just for Jennifer.

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. 

Okay, WHAT?

Marissa is in the Girls Scouts.  Wahoo.  The only activity in which Marissa has actively partcipated thus far has been to bilk me out of my hard-earned dollah dollah bills.  Not cool.

So we got this little notice the other day (she brought it home from school) to inform us that they're actually having an ACTIVITY.  Where they're actually going to DO SOMETHING.

I was not surprised when they said there was a fee.

BUT.  The "activity" is evidently drinking tea and acting like a princess.

Um, excuse me.  EXCUSE ME.  SHE CAN DO THAT AT HOME, FOR EFFING FREE.

And what the frick kind of an "activity" is that?  When I was in Girl Scouts (oh yeah, here it comes, bitches) I remember doing all sorts of awesome, manly things.  Like stitching MAGAZINES up into old vinyl tablecloths to make bitchin' SIT-UPONS so our hairy asses didn't get all soaked through while we were out in the WILDERNESS building CAMPFIRES and smashing BEER CANS ON OUR HEADS. 

And we had bridging ceremonies where we ATE GOATS AND HUNTED BOAR.  And did I mention the CAMPING?  Outside, in the rain, on the GROUND?

And we sang SONGS TO OLD PEOPLE.

And made stuff out of trash.  WE TOUCHED GARBAGE.  ON PURPOSE.  TO EARN A BADGE.

I have yet to meet the troop leader, but I have a feeling she's the type to use lots of gel in her hair, and I bet she coordinates her Keds to match her shirt.  I can't WAIT to drink tea and be a princess.  IT'S GOING TO BE SO AWESOME. 

Definitely not energy efficient.

I got my electric bill for the past two months.  It's SO SUPER COOL that they bill me two months at a time.  I SO LOVE IT.  Except, it sucks, and I hate it.

Everything in this house is electric.  EV. RY. THING.  Me?  Yes, I'm electric too.  Washing machine, dryer (do you KNOW how much effing electricity it takes to dry clothes?  Like, a million.  Yes, a million.)  stove/oven, heaters, everything.

So, my electric bill was about $750 for two months.  While that's not too incredibly disgusting (consider my $1600 bill from Southern California Edison -- during the summer months when I NEVER ran the air conditioner -- for one month of electricity) it's still pretty damn bad.

Right now, though, there's nothing I can do about it.  It's the dead of winter, so that means no way no how is any construction going on in this place.  No installing a wood-burning or pellet-burning stove.  No installing a gas stove to heat the living room.  No adding a propane tank or running gas lines.

No, we just have to suffer through until spring.  Except I want to rip my hair out in frustration.  How in the hell am I supposed to conserve energy in a place like this?  Why is the house even set up like this?  Why were the people who built this place SO DAMN WEIRD? 

White devil.

I guess my doctor had a wonderful sense of humor.  He prescribed these tiny little white pills, that I dutifully took.  The first day I took 6.  At once.  I followed the directions.

The second day I took two in the morning, one in the afternoon, and two that night.

Then, I went crazy.  Like, batshit totally effing crazy.

I threw things, and yelled and screamed.  And while I can recall the fervor with which I tried to single-handedly destroy my house (and all those who lived in it) I can't recall WHY exactly, I was so, um, miffed.

So Bryan took out the insert for my little white pills, and read the warning.  Which was:

Watch the fuck out, because this can make some bitches crazy. 

There were the words -- no lie -- PSYCHOTIC EPISODE in the warning.

So Bryan called the hospital, and the doctor said, "Yeah, that's happened before.  If she's doing okay by not taking them, then she can just stop."

Well, at least I know where to get some PCP the next time my family is in town and I want to make an impression.

The good news is that the doctor visits were less than $300, so I guess they're not trying to turn a profit on making people lose their minds.  I was worried it was going to be, like, a bajillion dollars.  In which case I would've had to go down there, and slam my hand on the counter, and yell, "THIS IS TOO MUCH!"  Or I could take another dose of pills and throw coffee mugs at the orderlies.

 I leave you with this photo, taken of Charlie when she was caught getting under the sink.  No one yelled at her or anything, we just said her name, and she did this:

Which I find funny, even when I'm not taking my Satan pills.