An Old Venetian Night

According to Biceps, I went to bed last night at 9pm. What am I, 90 years old? My parents have been in town and they are party animals. On one occasion, my parents hung out with brother and sister-in-law till the wee hours of the morning. I saw the clock strike pumpkin hour and couldn’t keep the eyelids open.

Needless to say, I was pooped when they left. Or, I’m just getting old.

I dreamt of our trip to Venice throughout my nine hours of sleep. I swear that my dream had the appropriate smells of the sea, baking bread, pasta and old stone in it.

I wandered back through the narrow streets, hand-in-hand with Biceps. We ate at familiar restaurants and enjoyed glasses of red house wine.

While we were in Venice (in real life), we enjoyed overcast days-great for being a tourist (lesser people on the street), not so great for being a photographer (flat colors). But even in my dream, it didn’t matter as we grabbed hot espressos and enjoyed the coolness of the day.

I don’t smoke, but it seemed appropriate as all the Venetians do while drinking their coffee. However, one cigarette was enough for me. Yuck.

One of my favorite things about Venice were their ancient bricked garages-no cars, just boats. In my dream, Biceps and I zoomed around the open sea with awesome sunglasses and super fancy white outfits.

At the end of my dream, before the cat woke me up, Biceps and I sat in the plaza eating spaghetti, drinking red wine and feeding the pigeons the bread from our table.

When I woke up this morning, I grabbed my computer and snuck out of the room. Biceps slept while I planned our next trip overseas, starting in Germany, winding our way to the south, north, east and west. With airfare just over 1k a piece-why not?! I carry that kind of chump change in my wallet.

Hah. I guess my dreams will suffice for now.

I think I got the cob out-Behind the Scenes at Great Day, Green Country

Last week, I was once again asked to be a guest on Great Day, Green Country. This time, I shared my Homemade Laundry Soap. You can see the live video of my dorkiness here, if you want to.

After three times of being a guest on the show, I think I got the cob out. If you know what I mean.

I did need to primp a little beforehand, making sure there weren’t any boogers or any lipstick on the chompers.

After laboring over the setup, while wearing really cute shoes, I was ready. And this is what was going through my head.

“Am I ready? Does this look right?”

“I don’t know. But my shoes are really cute.”

“Nope, it doesn’t look right. I’d better fix it. I am the master fixer. Hi-yah! I am ninja quick!”

“Cute, cute, cute. This looks cute. I like to make things cute. La da da da. La da da da.”

“Yep. This looks good. I should have gone with the anti-perspirant rather than the plain ‘ol deodorant. Keep the arms out and let the air flow.”

After everything was settled, all heck broke loose. And I decided my recycled Vodka bottle now containing my Laundry Softener was a photo op waiting to happen.

Yep, I’m a dork.

And then the camera’s began to roll and my heart skipped several beats and I began to sweat and sweat and sweat….But, I think the cob was finally removed-if you know what I mean.

They’ve asked me back again-I hope I can be even more relaxed and cob-less. Lord willin’ and the Creeks don’t rise.

Summer Kitty Fight Club

I have notice the kittens have an adverse reaction to the heat. We spend three hours outside almost every morning trying to curb their voracious appetite for destruction. While I write, they attack butterflies, stalk crickets, and tick off squirrels.

You’d think they would come in exhausted and ready for some treats and a nap. No luck. They are training for some secretive fight clubs we humans are not privy to.

Max weighs approximately 10 pounds more than Bianca. So his defense is domination.

Bianca’s is one of supposed submission only to suddenly kick her opponent with her back rabbit feet and toss Max onto his butt. (If cats had butts, that is.)

That only dissuades Max momentarily. After a tense minute or two as he sizes up the situation…

…he pounces, bear hugs and rolls the two of them around like a burrito of fur. It’s a pretty exciting way to pass a few minutes until the both are tuckered out and go to their respective corners.

Max has been shunning treats, as of late. Bianca has been cutting back on her food intake. I have a feeling this training is getting pretty serious. And it has an end goal.

I just hope the end goal is not to take over the humans like I’ve always feared. But, if I have to be ruled by someone/something-being ruled over by a cute furry cat isn’t a bad way to go. Don’t you think?

Two Parents, a Dog and a lot of PDA

My parents are visiting for the week! I love having them around. There’s something amazing about being totally accepted for your weirdness and finding the source to blame simultaneously. This is what they usually look like to me.

Mom tends to wear smaller sleeves, though.

I watched these two and their disgusting PDA all growing up. It was gross, then. But, I’m so very thankful for it now. They are one of the reasons that I’ll continue to smack Biceps on the backside every chance I get until I’m put in the grave.

I had an idyllic childhood-not perfect by no means-but pretty awesome. I wasn’t allowed to do everything I wanted to do, my parents weren’t my best friends-they were my parents, and I had to work for any luxury I wanted to own.
I have been spanked, banned from tv, written several thousand inches out of the dictionary to counterbalance my “misuse of words” (thanks for expanding my vocabulary, guys!), told mom I hated her-once (this did not go well), came home late from curfew, dated boys with mohawks..

But, I always knew that I was protected and loved. Even when I tossed my hair at them and said very sassy things. They loved me, no matter what.

Now that we’re all supposedly adults (I revert from time to time), we get to do this when they come to visit. Yes, we all wear really cool vintage outfits and drink beer.

Our relationship has changed from them being my parents into them being my best friends. I think that’s a good sign of parenting.

Now, it’s just good times, tons of food, and lots of fun. And the occasional beer.