Oh geez, Barb has been a Pukey Patti this week, so we’ve had a lot of post-vomit cuddling time to read (me) and gaze absently at a paper pile of meaningless symbols while swallowing back regurgitated salmon-y flavored niblets (her). Like this:
I have some really good excuses for not posting to this blog, mkay. Here’s some things I did:
1. Got married. To a looker.
As any self-respecting lady of leisure (read: unemployed) would, I have become the recent owner of a cat. Her name is Barbara Ann. We call her Barb.
Barb grew up in a trailer park for cats just off of the express-way. At least, that’s where we found her. From what I can gather, her mother ditched family and friends to run off with a tom-cat who had briefly struck it rich while filing his claws on a lottery ticket that had fallen onto the sidewalk from someone’s pocket. Drifters like him seldom stick around and this tabby was no different. He was long gone by the time the litter arrived. Hearing he’d run off to California, Barb’s mother decided to name her new fatherless kittens after Beach Boys songs: Barbara Ann, Rhonda, Surfer Girl, Kokomo, and Good Vibrations, which held sort of a double meaning for Barb’s mom.