Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes

It’s a new year, and a TCDA has a new home:

http://thecatsdemandanswers.com

Brilliant! Update your RSS feeds, your bookmarks, your blogrolls, and whatnots because this location is soon to be mothballed.

“So. My Christmas present.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Does it sparkle?”

“No.”

“Does it come in a turquoise box?”

“No.”

“Can I wear it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“It really doesn’t sparkle?”

“Yes.”

“AND we decided not to do anniversary presents this year so there’s, like, no sparkly surprises?”

“Right.”

“Are you sure? You better check again just to be certain.”

“Listen, I can’t get you jewlery every year, you’ll get sick of it.”

“Wanna bet?”

Does this camouflage make my butt look fat?

I am obsessed with olive plates. I don’t really know exactly when it happened. This kind of thing just sort of sneaks up on you, kind of like the way you wake up one day and you realize that Midge is no longer your favorite Barbie™ then one day you realize that Barbie altogether is kind of fucked up ™ and you don’t even notice when your mom has donated your 80+ dolls to a more needy kid.

So one day you’re walking around like a perfectly normal human being a then all of a sudden, you decide you need an olive plate. Not only do you need an olive plate but you know the exact one that you need. It just so happens that the one you desire you saw in the Autumnal Pottery Barn catalog of 2006. And you remember the exact year because that was the year you suddenly decided you needed your kitchen towels to match your pot holders. At this point, you’re wavering in a downward spiral of domestic wares memory lane and eventually you wake up damp and in a pool of your own spittle. But the point is, you’re awake and you need a mother fucking olive plate.

Crazy for feeling so… crazy

Once upon a time someone who may or may not be the author of this blog decided it would be a fantastic idea to have a little anti-pregnancy device implanted inside her body. Who would have thought, oh so many months ago, that this was a very bad idea indeed? After all, thousands of women have this device implanted WITHOUT ANY SIDE EFFECTS AT ALL. But one thing we know about our beloved heroine is that she is not at all normal.

Rhetoric

Oh how people love to hate. I don’t get all that much hate mail, but when I come across one that tickles me in a particular way I just can’t help but let the idiocy shine for all the world to see.

Jack writes in to say:

You fuckin nerd, where’s the part about the lobotomy? Don’t mislead people you fucking twit.

Note to self: hire new housekeeper

Whew, boy, it’s dusty around here. Um, don’t mind that pile of dirty laundry over there, ho-ho and just look at all those kitten tumbleweeds, and maybe we should open some of those windows to air this place out, eh?

So, ahem, this place has gotten a little stale hasn’t it? And yet you guys keep coming back to check in which is just about as sweet as can be. Gone are the NaBloPoMo days where I would (half-heartedly) attempt to write a post every night and gone with it is really any sort of writing ambition which I can only assume has been replaced by intellectual sloth.

Let’s see… oh man, we have a lot ot catch up on don’t we? We have a Triathlon to talk about, catch up on hate mail, and lastly (for I know that my female readers are dying to know) the shocking conclusion of my IUD experience (Spoiler alert! I hated it!). So sit back and relax, maybe even get yourself some popcorn, I’ll wait for you.

Plan to be surprised

Two days ago I found myself telling an old friend that, for better or worse, life is an adventure and even the best laid plans need to be revisited and revised. You need to have courage and you need to have faith in yourself. In an attempt to comfort him in a time of uncertainty, I found myself alluding to my own life as allegory.

Who took the fun out of dysfunctional?

I’ve never been one to hide the fact that I married Sean for his family, it’s a situation almost like a backwards prearranged wedding. Where I find my own family lacking, I simply supplemented and voila! Happy family days are here again. Ma and Pa Coy and the rabble rousing assortment of bothers and sisters are some of the funniest and lovable people I know. Despite all the conflict from years past, the poor choices made in investments, the other poor choices in rearing, the frantic calls in the middle of the night because someone or another has had a party and the police are now involved, I can’t help but love them for who they are and I miss them many of them on a near daily basis.

Spandex Shorts Are the New Little Black Dress

All he had to say was “Nah, you can’t do it, you wouldn’t want to do it” and just like that I was a part of our high school track team. Dad always knew just how to fan the flames of my competitive spirit and the Monday after he said those words I marched right down to the gym and slapped my name on the sign up sheet for varsity track. The first day of practice was informal and completely unorganized. None of us actually had our waiver slips signed so technically practicing was a bit of a legal sticky wicket. However, being dedicated runners, we persevered through lack of parental consent under the guise of 30 people just going out for a run together. Thirty incredibly crazy people.

Prerequisite

Going through at what seemed like a thousand old text messages I came across one I sent to a friend in August of last year.

I love you. Just wanted to tell you that. Why do I love you? Because you’re smart and you’re pretty and you have awesome hair. And it’s important to have friends with good hair so they don’t ruin your image.

Because that’s how I roll kids. (Actual new post coming soon, I swear.)