Unstable does not rock

Heed the warnings, instability abounds.

Just a feeling

Sure, my neighbour is very nice when we run into each other. Sure, he asks all the right questions about the kids, and he talks to them like they are little people not simpletons. Sure, he may be a cool old surfer-dude, and love the beach as much as me. Sure, he may have kindly offered me the use of his phone when I locked myself out of my flat. Sure, his house is lovely, and beautifully maintained by his much younger, not-from-here-originally wife. Sure, he may have turned heads when he was a young man.
But, if he turned up on the news tonight, having sliced and diced his wife, I just might not be surprised.

House of poo

I've owned lots of cats in my life, but I've never owned one when I lived in an apartment, until now. Recently, I submitted to the wishes of the sprogs (oh, okay, I wanted one a little bit too), and adopted a cat.

I thought about the acquisition of the feline for quite a long time. Once I had made the decision to go ahead with the idea, one thing held me off the immediate purchase of the cat. That one thing, was the logistics of the placement of the kitty litter tray. Where would it go so that it would be away from inquisitive little hands, and from my over-sensitive nose? Because, cat shit is bad enough when it is unleashed in the great outdoors, confined-cat shit has to be planned for, contained, and dealt with swiftly.

Eventually, I worked out a location that I could live with, the shower of the downstairs bathroom. Simply wizard!

We love our catty and her diametric ways. She is aloof and affectionate, entertaining and dull with sleep. She is the Sergeant-Major of routine, she sleeps on schedule, she plays on schedule, and she craps on schedule, filling our mornings (briefly) with that distinctive aroma.

I needn't have worried about the little hands getting into the kitty litter, they have inherited my extreme (according to one friend) cat-poo authoritarian nature (phobia).

"Mummy Catty's done a poo, quick clean it up, CLEAN IT UUUUUUUP!" they both shout each morning as they run around holding their noses.

The poo side has all been going along fine, she has occasionally missed the tray with part of her load, which makes me bless the non-porous-tile gods. Yep all fine, until this morning, when alerted to the presence of a little cat-gemmy, I raced to the bathroom to take care of it. I ducked the punch when I entered the room from which the fowl stench was emanating, but my eyes began to water.

"Oh...my...fucking...God!" not caring that the kids could hear. Cat shit, really stinky cat shit; up the shower wall, on the shower screen, on the shower floor, on the white bathmat, everywhere...my cat had exploded, and decorated with it.

Scene: Woman, latex gloves, lashings of disinfectant and much swearing.



Did I mention I love my cat? God bless her little catty bum.

BLISSED I AM

A BED IS SLIM
A BLED I MISS
A BID LESS I'M
A BLESS DIM I
A BLISS DIME
BAD MISSILE
BAD LIME SIS
BAD SLIME IS
ADMISSIBLE
BALD SEMI IS
ABLE ID MISS
BLAME DIS IS
SABLE DIM IS
BALI I'D MESS
BIAS SLID ME
BASIS I'D ELM
LAMB SIDE IS
SLAB I'D SEMI
BASS I'D LIME
MEDIA BLISS
DAMSEL IBIS
DAME BLISS I
AID BLISS ME
DISMAL BE IS
SADISM BILE
SAID BE SLIM
MAD BILE SIS
DAM BILE SIS
SAD IBIS ELM
SAD LIB SEMI
MELISSA BID
MALE BID SIS
SEA SIB MILD
AIL BED MISS
ISLAM BE DIS
AIM BID LESS
AS BED I SLIM
AS BID SMILE
AS BE I'D SLIM
ASS BID LIME
ASS BID MILE
ASS LIMB DIE
I AM BLISSED

Just plain wrong

I read the words in this article, and the first thing that went through my head was,

"Ooh, soft-shell turtle, that sounds yummy."

White

It's not like she doesn't look good, she does, in that I'm a skinny-arsed ho and I know it kind of way. But really, white pants? Over and over, white pants? Even if you own a pair of white pants (congratulations on your fab thighs and arse by the way), it's only one pair of white pants, that are part of some ultra-chic, does-not-crush-fabric pantsuit, of the kind that would make Katharine Hepburn verdant, that you wore on plane-flight to the Côte d'Azur last winter, right?

I see her some mornings, from the waist up initially, and she looks passable, she does wear some really nice clothes on her upper body, and then she steps around her car,
"Mornin", she says, and I shudder at the loss of her g (actually her g's aren't lost, they are permanently relocated up her arse in dark colours). And as she steps I hold my breath, what will it be today? Tight-white jeans? Tight-white capris (with silver buckle detail)? Tight-white, camel-toe (and really, I should not have to notice such things) boot cut slacks? Oh, it's a new pair of not-so-tight capri pants, nice cut actually, it's just a shame they are white (it is autumn) and paired with such dark colours, eeewww, and a pink vinyl belt.

She trudged past me this morning, the scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff of her ugg boots alerting me to her presence behind me. Too early for white pants think I, smile and say "Good morning," with emphasis on the g (I can save her).
"G'mornin." She says and scuffs past my raised eyebrows, good lord, white as white can be tracky daks tucked into her uggs!!!

**********************************

I know, who gets so worked up over clothes? I mean half the planet's population would be saying "White pants, nothing wrong with white pants and a bit of camel-toe." Perhaps I just need a cup of chai, a bex and a good lie down.

The Floricator

Floricate: the act of florication.

Florication: voluntary sex between an unmarried boy plant and an unmarried girl plant, or, when unwed flowering plants fuck.

ORIGIN early 21st cent., released into the world of google from the mind of a wonderful wordsmith.

Domestic bliss and the little sacrifices we make to achieve it

Appealing, is it not?