Pink's kittens are brothers.
And as boys do, they often fight and tumble around the ground together.
But ever since we got them they had this habit that was kind of awkward to walk in on.
See, the kittens sometimes like to 69.
Pink and I didn't know what to do the first time, so we just left the room.
"Um, so, they're gay?"
"I think they might be cleaning each other."
"Cleanliness ended about ten minutes ago."
After going to the vet, Pink asked about the boys sexual deviance:
PINK: The vet said it's really bad and we have to separate them anytime we see them going at it.
FUNKE: Why?
PINK: I dunno, it's bad for their nipples or something.
FUNKE: Maybe the vet just doesn't understand their love. Maybe she hates gays.
PINK: What?
FUNKE: She made that nipple shit up. I think she just doesn't like homosexual behavior.
PINK: I dunno, she seemed to think it was bad for them. She just seemed real adamant about not letting them do it.
FUNKE: I bet if cats could marry people would oppose gay cat marriage, too.
PINK: I think you're taking this a little far.
FUNKE: Well, I think your vet is a homophob.
PINK: They're doing it again!
FUNKE: Don't separate them! They'll only grow up to resent you! I love you boys -no matter who you love!
Showing posts with label Dapper Duo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dapper Duo. Show all posts
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Barely Legal
As some of you who read this blog on the regular might've noticed, I haven't written much lately.
And what I left you with was pictures of my freakin' cats.
Some of you may be worried and think "Holy Crap, Sue you have stopped writing and started knitting sweaters for your cats as if they're your children. Come back to us Sue! Step away from the kittens and back to the dog side!"
And by some of you, I mean my sister-in-law.
I'm here to tell you, I'm ok T. I just love all animals, and don't worry, I can't learn to knit for shit.
I've actually been spending a lot of time writing a monologue/essay for the show Inner Monologues hosted by a wonderful author Alexis Barad. The show has a theme that all the writers use to develop their pieces. April's was Barely Legal.
Since not everyone could make the reading party, I figured I'd publish mine here.
So without too much adieu I present:
And what I left you with was pictures of my freakin' cats.
Some of you may be worried and think "Holy Crap, Sue you have stopped writing and started knitting sweaters for your cats as if they're your children. Come back to us Sue! Step away from the kittens and back to the dog side!"
And by some of you, I mean my sister-in-law.
I'm here to tell you, I'm ok T. I just love all animals, and don't worry, I can't learn to knit for shit.
I've actually been spending a lot of time writing a monologue/essay for the show Inner Monologues hosted by a wonderful author Alexis Barad. The show has a theme that all the writers use to develop their pieces. April's was Barely Legal.
Since not everyone could make the reading party, I figured I'd publish mine here.
So without too much adieu I present:
Barely Legal
(This could've also been titled:
This Is Why I Smoke Cigarettes
A Love Story)
By Sue Funke
(This could've also been titled:
This Is Why I Smoke Cigarettes
A Love Story)
By Sue Funke
I had my first taste of that sweet, silky smoke when I was about 11 years old. It was my father’s cigarette that laid across the Waterford crystal ashtray that had an elegant F etched in the bottom for FUNKE.
I snatched the cigarette and relit it with a lighter that was embedded in marble. I inhaled the cigarette as if I had smoked for years.
Most people cough their first time; I make this shit look easy.
I thought.
I continued to grab drags like these briefly. Running the cigarette butts up into my room and striking matches from souvenir packs to fix my habit. The guilt afterward made me an enthusiastic teeth brusher and might’ve kept Bath and Body Works in business.
It was the summer between middle school and high school that I had decided to really give this smoking thing a go. I was hanging out with a group of girls, and guys, who were just beginning their addictions as well.
I was eager to share my veteran experience with the group, “I tried smoking. It was ok. I didn’t cough at all my first time.”
I started taking full cigarettes from my dad’s pack of Merit Golds. They were an older gentleman’s cigarette, not very popular with “the guys”. I liked smoking out of the blue pack because they looked cooler. My father rarely bought the blue pack.
Finally, there came a point that the uncoolness and rarity of the cigarette situation needed to change. My friend Jill and I wanted a pack of our own. But how do we get one?
“If we had the money, I could get us cigarettes,” I told her.
I don’t know whose idea it was to steal the money from our friends’ bags while they were in the pool. It was one of those things you do before you fully understand your personal ethics. You don’t realize that you’re fucking with karma; you’re just trying to get a mission accomplished.
We had about three dollars in quarters and we walked the back roads in bathing suits with wet clothing clinging.
“I’ll go in, you stay outside, it’s more convincing that way,” I ordered her in the know-it-all manner I held myself with at thirteen.
“You think they’d call the police?” Jill asked plotting consequences in her mind.
“We’ll be fine.” I said with confidence I was pulling out of my ass. I was paranoid of getting caught, but at the same time I believed in my bullshit plan.
I took the money from Jill and walked into the tobacco shop. The old man behind the counter had seen me before, but I was just one of about a hundred kids my age around this area. We all blended together in front of his black, wide glasses.
“I need a pack of Merit Blues for my Uncle. That’s his car out there,” I pointed to a car sitting outside the store.
The guy nodded and pulled out the pack.
“He said he didn’t want to get out of the car,” I offered up unprovoked.
He looked down at me with a face that seemed disappointed in me for making him think this was a ruse.
“He’s right out there - and he gave you this money to get him cigarettes,” he inquired as he looked down at the pile of quarters in his hand.
“He pays for it out of change in the ash tray,” I said this quickly, so quickly that for a moment I believed I really did have an uncle sitting in that 70’s green Caddy.
The old man was either defeated, or more likely, didn’t want to refuse the money, “Ok.” He handed over the cigarettes and matches.
I walked slowly out. My entire face and ears burned. I could barely feel the cigarettes I was holding. I was convinced it was all a dream and a SWAT team was going to come swarming in and take the cigarettes from me.
Instead, I pushed open the door and walked out onto the sidewalk, a.k.a. base. I was safe.
Jill looked at me amazed, “You got ‘em?” she exclaimed in disbelief.
“Fuck, of course I got them,” I said as I pulled the plastic string to open our cigarettes.
We split that pack- several ways once everyone found out we had it and got it by using my balls, and their money. That was my first split pack of cigarettes.
My first full pack of cigarettes was a month or so after. My partner in crime that day was Alexis , who I had also shop lifted and took shots of vodka with on random-chance occasions. She asked her crush, Tim, to get me a pack. I gave her the money to give him. And that day, after the last school bell rang, Tim was pulling out a pack of Marlborough Reds for me.
As I smoked this pack I felt different about my smoking, before it was all the thrill of finding the way to get the cigarette. This pack was different. It wasn’t as sneaky and fun. I was getting them because there was part of me that felt like should be addicted by now. At least, that’s what all those pamphlets had told me.
As I inhaled the first cigarette from my pack I felt sick: a head-to-toe a feeling of heaviness and regret. This was not the rush I was looking for. It was the exact opposite.
The guilt ate away at my thirteen year old mind.
Who was I becoming? Only 3 years prior I was so upset with my Dad’s smoking. I was supposed to be part of the smoke free class of 2000. I had even sang my allegiance to that concept:
We are the smoke free,
Class of 2000
Two triple zero,
Everyone’s a hero
Or a she-ro
Yet I was already hooked – I mean I’m buying packs, what’s next?
Sure, I wanted to hang out with the “bad kids”. I grew up listening to Billy Joel, who didn’t want to laugh with sinners? Saints just sat around and cried. I enjoyed their stupid stunts at a close but not-too-close, friendly distance. But, was I really one of them?
The next evening as my mother cooked dinner I paced around her nervously.
“What’s wrong Susie-Q?”
“Mom, can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
I choked on my confession. This was where I was supposed to inhale and let it out. Tell her that her daughter was a bad ass, but I couldn’t find it in myself to tell her. I couldn’t find the words in myself. I was so ashamed, embarrassed… in shock that I was actually about to confess.
My mother stood, concerned that her youngest child was having a mental breakdown at the age of 13.
“What is it Susie-Q, are you in trouble?”
“I think I’m going to be,” I said wide eyed while my stomach back flipped at the inhalation of pork chops cooking and guilty dry mouth.
“Whatever it is Susie I can forgive you. I love you. It’s ok.”
She sat hugging me for a minute as I found the words and ultimately I blurted out, “I’ve been smoking cigarettes!”
“Well, that’s not that bad,” she said probably relieved I wasn’t pregnant.
My chin rose up and I looked at her.
“I’m not happy about it, but your father smokes, I used smoke. I’d be a hypocrite if I screamed at you. How much do you smoke?”
“Not much,” I said. “I bought a pack this week, but I barely made I dent in it. I hate it.” I pulled the pack of Marlborough Reds out and presented them to my mother.
Her face fell and true disappointment was furrowed in her brow, “Oh Susan, Marlborough Reds? Truck drivers smoke Marlborough Reds. Couldn’t you have smoked something more feminine? Like a Virginia Slim or a Cool?”
The shame I felt for my lack of femininity in my mother’s eyes would continue to be a theme through out my life, as smoking would.
Even though I promised her I’d quit, I couldn’t give up smoking, not even for a mother’s love. It was so tempting with packs around the house and high school. I started getting cartons from friends who worked at supermarkets, smoking anything they’re four finger discount could grab.
The expense for cartons though was much greater than packs, so it required a lot of money. Where does a child who’s not even legal to join the work force get money for cigs? Babysitting.
I was fourteen when Kathy moved across the street with her two children and “old money” husband. Mrs. K was a very relaxed woman, who was in her early forties and had lived a wild and exciting life before settling down with a man who seemed so lack luster compared to her jet-setting finance life style.
“Do whatever you want with the kids, here’s money for the pizza,” she handed me thirty dollars and then utters the magical words, “keep the change.”
It was wonderful tax free money that was ridiculously simple. All I had to do was not fuck up. So, what did I do? Steal her cigarettes.
She caught me puffing on her stashed Merit Ultra 100’s when she came home early from a PTA meeting. There were no mirrors in the yellow kitchen, but I’m pretty sure I turned green.
“Sue, you smoke?”
“Yes,” I squeaked as I stood with it held out toward her as if to say – “You caught me! Take it! Burn me with it! I’m so freakin’ guilty!!!”
She looked at me and nodded, then pulled another pack from her purse and sat down on the patio furniture. “Well, at least I have a smoking buddy now. Just don’t give me shit about smoking while pregnant and we’ll be fine.”
I must’ve blinked a thousand times before I sat down next to her.
“You gonna smoke it or let it fall to ash?” she said to me as she tapped her cigarette, “How often do you smoke?”
I finally realized she didn’t give a shit so I opened up to her, “Well Mrs. K, I smoke as often as I can. Lately not so much, I have this carton of Newports at home and they’re so gross.”
“Ugh, Awful! You should try something lighter.”
“I have, I really like Parliament lights, but I’m kinda at the mercy of whoever can grab me cigs.”
“Ok then, here’s a deal. You baby sit for me all summer and I’ll buy you a carton of Parliament lights every two weeks. And, if my mother-in-law ever comes over and we’re smoking, you say all the cigarette butts are yours.”
I was giving up a lot of other gigs to go solo with her, families I had worked with for years. But I would be crazy to give up on the chance for guaranteed cigs.
“Deal,” I said, but then as I sat there longer I wondered why she still had to worry about what people cared about. I always dreamed that once I turned 18 I could smoke however much I wanted, whenever I wanted. Being a blunt I just came right out and asked her.
“Kathy, why do you have to hide your smoking? You’re an adult, can’t you do whatever you want?”
“I wish. You still have to follow social rules. Sure, I can buy cigarettes, but I’m not supposed to. I’m pregnant and people are telling me how to do everything, but what they don’t get is I love smoking. I’m not saying that I love it more than my child. My life’s changed a lot over the years, and the one thing that hasn’t are my smoking habits. They’re always there to make me feel better, make me feel at home.”
And you might say I shouldn’t follow advice from a smoking pregnant woman, but I did. It was that night that I realized that I wasn’t just smoking because it was cool, or the thrill, or even the addiction. It was because it was my constant too. Maybe I didn’t cough that first time because it was part of who I was from the very beginning, or maybe it’s because whenever I was all alone and didn’t know what to do with myself, I always knew cigarettes were there with me. What I do know is, now that I can get them whenever I want as an adult they aren’t as much fun to buy. That also might have to do with the fact that I don’t have all that indispensable tax free babysitting money, or that I have ethics that bar me from stealing from friends, or the lovely pot habit I picked up in college. But that’s a whole other story.
I snatched the cigarette and relit it with a lighter that was embedded in marble. I inhaled the cigarette as if I had smoked for years.
Most people cough their first time; I make this shit look easy.
I thought.
I continued to grab drags like these briefly. Running the cigarette butts up into my room and striking matches from souvenir packs to fix my habit. The guilt afterward made me an enthusiastic teeth brusher and might’ve kept Bath and Body Works in business.
It was the summer between middle school and high school that I had decided to really give this smoking thing a go. I was hanging out with a group of girls, and guys, who were just beginning their addictions as well.
I was eager to share my veteran experience with the group, “I tried smoking. It was ok. I didn’t cough at all my first time.”
I started taking full cigarettes from my dad’s pack of Merit Golds. They were an older gentleman’s cigarette, not very popular with “the guys”. I liked smoking out of the blue pack because they looked cooler. My father rarely bought the blue pack.
Finally, there came a point that the uncoolness and rarity of the cigarette situation needed to change. My friend Jill and I wanted a pack of our own. But how do we get one?
“If we had the money, I could get us cigarettes,” I told her.
I don’t know whose idea it was to steal the money from our friends’ bags while they were in the pool. It was one of those things you do before you fully understand your personal ethics. You don’t realize that you’re fucking with karma; you’re just trying to get a mission accomplished.
We had about three dollars in quarters and we walked the back roads in bathing suits with wet clothing clinging.
“I’ll go in, you stay outside, it’s more convincing that way,” I ordered her in the know-it-all manner I held myself with at thirteen.
“You think they’d call the police?” Jill asked plotting consequences in her mind.
“We’ll be fine.” I said with confidence I was pulling out of my ass. I was paranoid of getting caught, but at the same time I believed in my bullshit plan.
I took the money from Jill and walked into the tobacco shop. The old man behind the counter had seen me before, but I was just one of about a hundred kids my age around this area. We all blended together in front of his black, wide glasses.
“I need a pack of Merit Blues for my Uncle. That’s his car out there,” I pointed to a car sitting outside the store.
The guy nodded and pulled out the pack.
“He said he didn’t want to get out of the car,” I offered up unprovoked.
He looked down at me with a face that seemed disappointed in me for making him think this was a ruse.
“He’s right out there - and he gave you this money to get him cigarettes,” he inquired as he looked down at the pile of quarters in his hand.
“He pays for it out of change in the ash tray,” I said this quickly, so quickly that for a moment I believed I really did have an uncle sitting in that 70’s green Caddy.
The old man was either defeated, or more likely, didn’t want to refuse the money, “Ok.” He handed over the cigarettes and matches.
I walked slowly out. My entire face and ears burned. I could barely feel the cigarettes I was holding. I was convinced it was all a dream and a SWAT team was going to come swarming in and take the cigarettes from me.
Instead, I pushed open the door and walked out onto the sidewalk, a.k.a. base. I was safe.
Jill looked at me amazed, “You got ‘em?” she exclaimed in disbelief.
“Fuck, of course I got them,” I said as I pulled the plastic string to open our cigarettes.
We split that pack- several ways once everyone found out we had it and got it by using my balls, and their money. That was my first split pack of cigarettes.
My first full pack of cigarettes was a month or so after. My partner in crime that day was Alexis , who I had also shop lifted and took shots of vodka with on random-chance occasions. She asked her crush, Tim, to get me a pack. I gave her the money to give him. And that day, after the last school bell rang, Tim was pulling out a pack of Marlborough Reds for me.
As I smoked this pack I felt different about my smoking, before it was all the thrill of finding the way to get the cigarette. This pack was different. It wasn’t as sneaky and fun. I was getting them because there was part of me that felt like should be addicted by now. At least, that’s what all those pamphlets had told me.
As I inhaled the first cigarette from my pack I felt sick: a head-to-toe a feeling of heaviness and regret. This was not the rush I was looking for. It was the exact opposite.
The guilt ate away at my thirteen year old mind.
Who was I becoming? Only 3 years prior I was so upset with my Dad’s smoking. I was supposed to be part of the smoke free class of 2000. I had even sang my allegiance to that concept:
We are the smoke free,
Class of 2000
Two triple zero,
Everyone’s a hero
Or a she-ro
Yet I was already hooked – I mean I’m buying packs, what’s next?
Sure, I wanted to hang out with the “bad kids”. I grew up listening to Billy Joel, who didn’t want to laugh with sinners? Saints just sat around and cried. I enjoyed their stupid stunts at a close but not-too-close, friendly distance. But, was I really one of them?
The next evening as my mother cooked dinner I paced around her nervously.
“What’s wrong Susie-Q?”
“Mom, can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
I choked on my confession. This was where I was supposed to inhale and let it out. Tell her that her daughter was a bad ass, but I couldn’t find it in myself to tell her. I couldn’t find the words in myself. I was so ashamed, embarrassed… in shock that I was actually about to confess.
My mother stood, concerned that her youngest child was having a mental breakdown at the age of 13.
“What is it Susie-Q, are you in trouble?”
“I think I’m going to be,” I said wide eyed while my stomach back flipped at the inhalation of pork chops cooking and guilty dry mouth.
“Whatever it is Susie I can forgive you. I love you. It’s ok.”
She sat hugging me for a minute as I found the words and ultimately I blurted out, “I’ve been smoking cigarettes!”
“Well, that’s not that bad,” she said probably relieved I wasn’t pregnant.
My chin rose up and I looked at her.
“I’m not happy about it, but your father smokes, I used smoke. I’d be a hypocrite if I screamed at you. How much do you smoke?”
“Not much,” I said. “I bought a pack this week, but I barely made I dent in it. I hate it.” I pulled the pack of Marlborough Reds out and presented them to my mother.
Her face fell and true disappointment was furrowed in her brow, “Oh Susan, Marlborough Reds? Truck drivers smoke Marlborough Reds. Couldn’t you have smoked something more feminine? Like a Virginia Slim or a Cool?”
The shame I felt for my lack of femininity in my mother’s eyes would continue to be a theme through out my life, as smoking would.
Even though I promised her I’d quit, I couldn’t give up smoking, not even for a mother’s love. It was so tempting with packs around the house and high school. I started getting cartons from friends who worked at supermarkets, smoking anything they’re four finger discount could grab.
The expense for cartons though was much greater than packs, so it required a lot of money. Where does a child who’s not even legal to join the work force get money for cigs? Babysitting.
I was fourteen when Kathy moved across the street with her two children and “old money” husband. Mrs. K was a very relaxed woman, who was in her early forties and had lived a wild and exciting life before settling down with a man who seemed so lack luster compared to her jet-setting finance life style.
“Do whatever you want with the kids, here’s money for the pizza,” she handed me thirty dollars and then utters the magical words, “keep the change.”
It was wonderful tax free money that was ridiculously simple. All I had to do was not fuck up. So, what did I do? Steal her cigarettes.
She caught me puffing on her stashed Merit Ultra 100’s when she came home early from a PTA meeting. There were no mirrors in the yellow kitchen, but I’m pretty sure I turned green.
“Sue, you smoke?”
“Yes,” I squeaked as I stood with it held out toward her as if to say – “You caught me! Take it! Burn me with it! I’m so freakin’ guilty!!!”
She looked at me and nodded, then pulled another pack from her purse and sat down on the patio furniture. “Well, at least I have a smoking buddy now. Just don’t give me shit about smoking while pregnant and we’ll be fine.”
I must’ve blinked a thousand times before I sat down next to her.
“You gonna smoke it or let it fall to ash?” she said to me as she tapped her cigarette, “How often do you smoke?”
I finally realized she didn’t give a shit so I opened up to her, “Well Mrs. K, I smoke as often as I can. Lately not so much, I have this carton of Newports at home and they’re so gross.”
“Ugh, Awful! You should try something lighter.”
“I have, I really like Parliament lights, but I’m kinda at the mercy of whoever can grab me cigs.”
“Ok then, here’s a deal. You baby sit for me all summer and I’ll buy you a carton of Parliament lights every two weeks. And, if my mother-in-law ever comes over and we’re smoking, you say all the cigarette butts are yours.”
I was giving up a lot of other gigs to go solo with her, families I had worked with for years. But I would be crazy to give up on the chance for guaranteed cigs.
“Deal,” I said, but then as I sat there longer I wondered why she still had to worry about what people cared about. I always dreamed that once I turned 18 I could smoke however much I wanted, whenever I wanted. Being a blunt I just came right out and asked her.
“Kathy, why do you have to hide your smoking? You’re an adult, can’t you do whatever you want?”
“I wish. You still have to follow social rules. Sure, I can buy cigarettes, but I’m not supposed to. I’m pregnant and people are telling me how to do everything, but what they don’t get is I love smoking. I’m not saying that I love it more than my child. My life’s changed a lot over the years, and the one thing that hasn’t are my smoking habits. They’re always there to make me feel better, make me feel at home.”
And you might say I shouldn’t follow advice from a smoking pregnant woman, but I did. It was that night that I realized that I wasn’t just smoking because it was cool, or the thrill, or even the addiction. It was because it was my constant too. Maybe I didn’t cough that first time because it was part of who I was from the very beginning, or maybe it’s because whenever I was all alone and didn’t know what to do with myself, I always knew cigarettes were there with me. What I do know is, now that I can get them whenever I want as an adult they aren’t as much fun to buy. That also might have to do with the fact that I don’t have all that indispensable tax free babysitting money, or that I have ethics that bar me from stealing from friends, or the lovely pot habit I picked up in college. But that’s a whole other story.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Confession: I Love These Kittens
I have given up folks. I can't fight it anymore, this dog person - who was completely normal and in love with life single gal is now in love with the Dapper Duo.
Just look at these pictures and tell me they are not adorable:
I pick them up every morning and cradle them and say, "I love you!!!"
Like every f'in dorky cat lover I've ever mocked.
Oh, what has happened to me?
There's something so sad about loving kittens, calling them your boys, acting like they are really your kids with your female roommate who's your close pal, but not your life partner.
Pink and I have joked about being a sexless lesbian couple, but now with the kittens, it's kinda like we are. We sit around and discuss our parenting methods of the boys and talk about the funny little things they do.
They sleep with me.
I'll wake up and they're around. They wait till I come home to eat.
I'm a Mommy, but, closer to a foster one. Because ultimately they are Pink's cats.
I know them well enough to know their individual personalities, and I can tell them apart without using their collars. In person they are quite different. This picture best shows their "personalities":
On the left, we have Tux. I know this for several reasons:
The above picture is on the inside of my phone. The one below is on the front display:
Who am I??
I am a softy.
Ahem, I am also a comedian, and I've got show dates for April '08 posted.
Click here, and mark your calendars! I'll see you at the shows, I hope! :)
Just look at these pictures and tell me they are not adorable:
I pick them up every morning and cradle them and say, "I love you!!!"
Like every f'in dorky cat lover I've ever mocked.
Oh, what has happened to me?
There's something so sad about loving kittens, calling them your boys, acting like they are really your kids with your female roommate who's your close pal, but not your life partner.
Pink and I have joked about being a sexless lesbian couple, but now with the kittens, it's kinda like we are. We sit around and discuss our parenting methods of the boys and talk about the funny little things they do.
They sleep with me.
I'll wake up and they're around. They wait till I come home to eat.
I'm a Mommy, but, closer to a foster one. Because ultimately they are Pink's cats.
I know them well enough to know their individual personalities, and I can tell them apart without using their collars. In person they are quite different. This picture best shows their "personalities":
On the left, we have Tux. I know this for several reasons:
- He's chubbier
- The swirl on his chin
- He's pushing his brother out of the picture
The above picture is on the inside of my phone. The one below is on the front display:
Who am I??I am a softy.
Ahem, I am also a comedian, and I've got show dates for April '08 posted.
Click here, and mark your calendars! I'll see you at the shows, I hope! :)
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Cat Names
We've had these unnamed kittens scurrying about the apartment for about two weeks now. During this time they've had no names.
Originally, Pink wanted to name them Ford and Timberland. Ford because she wants a Ford Truck, and Timberland because she loves Timberland boots. Even though they are her kittens and I'm just like step mother to them by default, I can't help but weigh in on these names.
"So, we're making the kittens white trash?" was my response.
Pink's siblings wanted to call the one that allows you to pick him up Grandpa, because he kinda goes limp when you hold him. I once again objected.
"Sure, when you pick up the kitten he goes limp, but he's the more active kitten, and although it could be ironic, it just seems weird."
Tom just wanted to refer to them as pussies.
And even though I objected to the suggested names, I had no stellar ones of my own. I thought Tom Cat and Tony Tiger - these were quickly rejected.
We went around referring to them by their collar colors, and weight.
"Blue chubby is in the curtain."
"Red scrawny is hanging off the TV stand."
This couldn't go on.
And finally, resolution.
On a hungover weekend morning as the kitten danced upon her tummy Pink declared, "Tux and Timber."
"Ok, fair enough. I enjoy the alliteration. Which is which?"
"Well, the chubby blue one is Tux because he looks older and more dignified. And that makes scrawny red collar Timber."
That's how the cat's got their names.
Tom continues to call them pussies.
Originally, Pink wanted to name them Ford and Timberland. Ford because she wants a Ford Truck, and Timberland because she loves Timberland boots. Even though they are her kittens and I'm just like step mother to them by default, I can't help but weigh in on these names.
"So, we're making the kittens white trash?" was my response.
Pink's siblings wanted to call the one that allows you to pick him up Grandpa, because he kinda goes limp when you hold him. I once again objected.
"Sure, when you pick up the kitten he goes limp, but he's the more active kitten, and although it could be ironic, it just seems weird."
Tom just wanted to refer to them as pussies.
And even though I objected to the suggested names, I had no stellar ones of my own. I thought Tom Cat and Tony Tiger - these were quickly rejected.
We went around referring to them by their collar colors, and weight.
"Blue chubby is in the curtain."
"Red scrawny is hanging off the TV stand."
This couldn't go on.
And finally, resolution.
On a hungover weekend morning as the kitten danced upon her tummy Pink declared, "Tux and Timber."
"Ok, fair enough. I enjoy the alliteration. Which is which?"
"Well, the chubby blue one is Tux because he looks older and more dignified. And that makes scrawny red collar Timber."
That's how the cat's got their names.
Tom continues to call them pussies.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
2008 is Great!
Well, let's hope I don't peak too soon here.
There's a lot of change going on right now, and it's seasonally fitting so I'm rolling with it.
My roommates and I are leaving our apartment next month. The building we live in has been sold, and our apartment is illegally zoned - ain't that great? So the apartment hunt is on, and this time we're only looking for a two bed room.
Roommate Tom will be going back to just buddy Tom here, because he's moving in with his life long pal Anthony. I have to admit I was shocked to hear the news. I couldn't believe Anthony was finally leaving his mom's house, but 30 does seem like the right time to spread your wings.
This leaves Pink and I...and our two boys:
Meet the Dapper Duo, Pink's Christmas presents.
We have yet to name the boys so now they just go by their collar colors - Red and Blue. They are only 3 months old; so the collars barely fit. We have to keep them on though, because the bells upon them are the only way we can find them sometimes.
My favorite thing they do so far is when they play fight. They have these flying jump kick moves that make them look like Matrix kittens. It's awesome.
In other news, my sketch group premiers "Off Broadway" tomorrow night. The Ultimate Experts will be at the Producer's Club 358 West 44th Street (between 8 & 9 Avenue).
This is probably one of the coolest things I'm about to do in my life.
I've had my comedic sketch writing performed before
but to have an entire show with my sketches
and sketches I've collaborated on that are written by amazing comedic writers
and I get to act in them
it's a dream coming true!
Obviously, I'm excited.
(Here's our MySpace page)
I've bought some Sleepy Time Tea with Valerian Root to help me sleep tonight. Hopefully, the mischievous kitties will not get into it - apparently Valerian Root helps humans sleep, but it is like crack for cats.
There's a lot of change going on right now, and it's seasonally fitting so I'm rolling with it.
My roommates and I are leaving our apartment next month. The building we live in has been sold, and our apartment is illegally zoned - ain't that great? So the apartment hunt is on, and this time we're only looking for a two bed room.
Roommate Tom will be going back to just buddy Tom here, because he's moving in with his life long pal Anthony. I have to admit I was shocked to hear the news. I couldn't believe Anthony was finally leaving his mom's house, but 30 does seem like the right time to spread your wings.
This leaves Pink and I...and our two boys:
Meet the Dapper Duo, Pink's Christmas presents.We have yet to name the boys so now they just go by their collar colors - Red and Blue. They are only 3 months old; so the collars barely fit. We have to keep them on though, because the bells upon them are the only way we can find them sometimes.
My favorite thing they do so far is when they play fight. They have these flying jump kick moves that make them look like Matrix kittens. It's awesome.
In other news, my sketch group premiers "Off Broadway" tomorrow night. The Ultimate Experts will be at the Producer's Club 358 West 44th Street (between 8 & 9 Avenue).
This is probably one of the coolest things I'm about to do in my life.
I've had my comedic sketch writing performed before
but to have an entire show with my sketches
and sketches I've collaborated on that are written by amazing comedic writers
and I get to act in them
it's a dream coming true!
Obviously, I'm excited.
(Here's our MySpace page)
I've bought some Sleepy Time Tea with Valerian Root to help me sleep tonight. Hopefully, the mischievous kitties will not get into it - apparently Valerian Root helps humans sleep, but it is like crack for cats.
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