The Old Favorite

Eight.

My once-favorite.

And today, on the eighth month, on the 28th, we celebrated our eighth.

We welcomed that day with a moderate feline disaster shortly after four in the morning. Apparently Pumpkin decided our couch was a better place to… relieve herself… Also with the hissing-growling combination that Crackers decided to continuously feed her furry enemy. Well, therefore…

Fat camp had failed.

Francis arrived before eleven to make the exchange. A very happy bundle of dark fat and fluff greeted him by head-butting my legs and sprawling without a care on the living room floor while the boys hacked out some houses in Minecraft.

So, one black cat in trade for some peace of mind.

Fortunately for the nerves of all parties, Floozie would be sent to a farm. No, really, an actual farm where her whining tantrums would instead finally be concerto-ed to the hay bales and night owls.

And unfortunately, despite our best efforts at sucking in some fresh air in that great old outdoors, the mosquitos inevitably possess alternative plans. They circle, like vultures, around summer-gold skin. And I, for one, prefer to remain off the mid-morning snack menu.

Pucked chowed down a bowl of almonds, orange pepper, plum, and white flour tortilla for lunch, washing up everything with a glass of skim milk.

At three o’clock, Crackers upchucked.

I suppose it doesn’t do any good to ask – why me?

Meanwhile, Puck caught a “Magic School Bus” rolled in a blanket on the floor, where his legs were beginning to fall asleep…

“My feet are feeling dizzy. The blood is surfing up into my legs.”

The Bear carted in a paper sack of those pretty Penn Station subs for our anniversary dinner at home.

In a side note – OLeif the Vikingly Bear was telling me the other day that Neil Armstrong, a Presbyterian elder in Texas, privately administered to himself communion on the moon after landing.

The Bear also informs me – he likes checking up on the world at night – that “we” have only explored five percent of the sea.

Some things are just nice to know.

Thought of the Day

Sometimes I wonder if people “with money” are always afraid that… everything’s going to break.

Or maybe it just depends on where you visit the city.

For example, I can deposit Puck in any park in St. Charles, and the parents enjoy the company he provides for their children. No complaints. I’ve had parents thank me for letting him play with their kids.

However, if you check out a manicured play set in Clayton… well, I have to watch things more carefully. The moms hover – like anxious bumble bees – over their kids. It’s like they really believe they’re composed of two hundred year-old glass. Therefore, I even had one of these gym-spa-country-club moms ask Puck to get off the slide because I guess she was worried he would disorder the arrangement of her daughter’s glossy curls.

I mean, I understand looking out for your kids and all, teaching them how to play safe, but kids bounce.

They really do.

Or… maybe it’s just Puck with the iron bones.

Either way, they really need to just chill a little; relax. And maybe not with a cucumber-facial-sauna-or-whatever. Maybe just with their kids.