They Have Arrived: KITTENS

My apartment is now home to a mother cat (tentatively named Ginger Rogers) and her two crazy kittens whom we have named Loki and Thor. We don’t know their sexes yet but my kittens don’t subscribe to conventions like gender roles so it’s a moot point; they’re trailblazers in borderline gender identities in the feline community.

Ginger Rogers seems very displeased about the arrangement and Loki and Thor seem confused but content. On the way home from the shelter, all three went into a cardboard carrier. Ginge was not happy about this and shoved herself into a corner of the box, asking herself how she had gotten here. Knocked up at only one year old, the father not even in the picture… what was she doing with her life? But the kittens were quite the opposite: trampling all over each other in a brave attempt to discover the marvels of this cardboard wonderland.

L and T are completely unaware of their mother’s disdain for their existence as evidenced by their use of her body as a trampoline and a launching pad. That’s their main form of exercise besides clawing their way up my body via my clothes, using their claws as tiny, adorable grappling hooks.

Below are grainy, fuzzy photos of Loki, Thor, and Ginger Rogers. Sorry about the horrible quality. They were taken at night and the kittens would not stay still and pose even when I prompted them with encouraging comments, “Show me some personality, Loki! You’re a Norse god for Pete’s sake, SELL IT TO ME!!!”

Tomorrow, expect  high quality photos!

photo (2)

Right out of the can, no manners.

Right out of the can, no manners.




- Daughter

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My Sister Drank Out of a Bird Bath and Bit Me

That last photo I posted of myself when I was younger and when my little sister was but a squirmy bean reminded me of a story I look back on with fondness.

To say my little sister was a weird little kid is a huge understatement. Her favorite food was anything inedible or unappetizing. Especially sand. She could do some serious damage at the beach, crunching handfuls of it at a time. If there was sand in the vicinity, she would – and did – eat it. We didn’t always catch her in the act but the evidence of the crime was always there: the telltale sand mustache and beard. She also loved to lick the sliding glass door and the walls, but who doesn’t?

This particular day, my little sister was outside at the bird bath with her back turned to the house. It looked very suspicious so I went out  to check on her to make sure she wasn’t up to her usual shenanigans. I wasn’t surprised to see that the goings-on were nefarious. She wasn’t just standing at the bird bath innocently, admiring her own reflection. She wasn’t lost in a moment of existential pondering as she watched the rings of water spreading out in response to her touch on the surface. She wasn’t examining how the weathered cracks on the bird bath created a map of sorts; one that detailed the time past and history of the various feathered animals that have come and gone hither and thither. She was not reciting a monologue from Hamlet or pontificating in the natural landscape. Nope. She was drinking the water from the bird bath like she was dying of thirst. I don’t know if you are familiar with bird bath water quality, but it is usually filled with bird poop and dead bugs. I wasn’t worried about the bugs so much but the feces concerned me.

I was horrified that my baby sister was drinking this murky, poopy water so I immediately yanked her away.

This was a mistake.

She started screaming like I had just murdered her beloved Teletubbies. The bird bath had been her Eden where she was free to partake in the forbidden fruit (poopy, bird bath water). I had shattered and corrupted this dreamlike place with my presence; I was the villain forcibly evicting her from this paradise of inedible delicacies.

And she would suffer the injustice of this sibling intervention no longer; she turned to me and yelled, “FOR SPARTAAA!!!”* And with that, she summoned all of her toddler strength and wrestled with me until she was in a position where she could inflict maximum damage with her fangs. She sank her tiny incisors into my hand until she drew blood. I immediately dropped her (sister: 1, me: 0) and she ran back to the bird bath to continue consuming E. Coli.

I knew what had to be done:


- Daughter

* Dramatization

Do Not Drop That Baby

Me, 10 years old, with my newly-hatched sister.

I think there are a lot of unanswered questions about this photo that I need to consider carefully:

1) Why would my mom take a photo when obviously she should have taken the baby away as soon as I made that soul-stealing scary grin?

2) Why am I holding my sister like a bag of potatoes and not using proper baby-holding technique?

3) What am I supposed to be? A medieval noble? A princess? A Teen Mom star?

4) Why isn’t my sister in a real costume? Halloween-themed clothes do not count, even if she wears matching booties. Nope, try again, Mom.

5) Seriously, what is wrong with my face?

This photo was taken three days before I was arrested for being a shady, shady ten-year-old.

- Daughter


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