How My Pussy Handles Bad News

So, many of you know (because I won’t stop being a bawl baby and feel the need to post every other day about this matter – oh woe is me) my furry feline Ted and I have been asked to leave our little mini-manse due to the owner’s son needing my side for his expanding family. I took a minute to digest the news before passing the information along to an “I hate change more than anything in the history of the universe” cat.

When I first told Teddy we were relocating, he gave me his best cartoon eyes popping out of head routine.

WTF were you thinking? I KNOW.


Then he got all weepy…

Starting to bawl just like his mom taught him how

I think Mr. Bear thought if he gave me his sad face long enough it would change our situation.  No such luck.

Realizing his fake tears weren’t working, he ran for the nearest open space (that he has never, ever been interested in before).

Running for cover.

Running for cover.

While trying to coax TB out of his hiding space, he tried to escape his pain by delving deeper into the interior of my cabinets.

Maybe if I hide up in the cupboards, I will just drive the new tenants mad with meows.

Why can’t he just stuff his face when upset like the rest of us? DRAMA.

So after begging and pleading with him, he emerged from his hideout.

Beg me

Beg me and I will come.

Silly me, thinking this moving nonsense was water under the bridge, I turned my back for one second (CATS!) and Teddy had moved on to bigger and better out-of-reach places.

Master of Fridge Mountain.

Master of Fridge Mountain.

Sternly telling him to get down and take his eye balls off of my antique decanters, he suddenly lost the ability to hear.

Yep. He went there.

Yep. He went there.

What's up here?

Proving his point.

I reluctantly resisted the urge to scream “GET THE F DOWN” at the top of my lungs as he walked the top of my cabinets like a tightroping Vegas act.

Delicate maneuvers. I tried to resist the urge to yell at him to get the F down from my antique decanters...

Delicate maneuvers.

Slither attempt

Making my heart race with the little flicks of his tail. Bitch!

Reaching the end of his circus act, he realized there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide so he turned around and gave me 30 more seconds of quiet terror as he sauntered back to his starting point.



Then Mr. Bear got all dramatic and tried ramming his head through the kitchen wall.

Ram Rod.

Ram Rod.

Realizing this attempt at drama hurt him more than it did me, he just sat and burned two tiny holes into my soul with his gaze of hell.

Gaze of hell. I feel like he burned two tiny holes into my soul with this icy stare.

This pussy is pissed.

And then, he proceeded to cry, whine, bitch and moan for about a half an hour until I got up on a chair and replanted him to lower ground.

This upcoming weekend of moving is going to be such fun…I may single handedly drink the world dry of Captain Morgan.

Yes, please wish me luck.



Trashy Track

While in Miami, I was fortunate enough to visit Gulfstream Racing and Casino Park. It’s an all-encompassing venue that includes horse races, a casino, shops, restaurants and bars. For me, it was sensory overload. I felt like Teddy seeing sequins reflecting off the wall (what is that? where did that go? which one should I chase first?).

But the best part (for me) was being able to sip a cocktail (surprise!) while casing the joint for our next adventure. So of course, I kept it classy, with a side of trashy tourist (I know you’re shocked) during my visit (I was just missing a gigantic camera with a long lens around my neck to complete my look).

I wanted to jump in the cage, just to run out of it.

On your mark…get set…I wanted to run behind the bars, just to ‘make an appearance’ as the doors flew open.

There was a scoreboard that I couldn’t read but had pretty palm trees all around, so of course a picture was snapped.


The actual track seemed huge while they pranced the pretty ponies around (I took this picture for the poinsettias).

What horses?

Keeping my dream as a Price is Right model alive (I mean, did you see me hand gesture the hell out of a Bently? Better click here if you didn’t), I tried to look as spokesperson-like as possible by my favorite sign.

Much like my Price Is Right dream

Keepin’ the game show gesture model hope afloat!

Hello home away from home….

Called my name.

Calling my name.

As soon as I laid eyes on the tiki joint, I put a sold sign up by a chair.

Permanent Residency

Permanent residency.

Of course all of the sitting and drinking makes one hungry, so we shelled out the big bucks for the fanciest (worst) nachos in the history of the universe (and at every last crumb).

Nothing but the best, Clark.

Gut bomb.

We had to take a break from the nachos and horses to perform emergency sliver surgery. Don’t worry, we sterilized the needle with a lighter. High class, I know.

Emergency sliver surgery

Not sure how this was acquired but needed immediate removal. At the dining table.

Bored waiting on the horses to actually start trotting, we ventured to watch the teeny tiny jockeys (which made me feel as tall as Khloe Kardashian and I am 5’5″ on a good day) prepare to race at the Saddling Paddock. I wanted to ask to get my picture made with one of the jockeys but too terrified I would look like the Jolly Green Giant.

So, I took a picture of the sign instead.

We caught a glimpse of the horses as they were paraded around in a circle.

My favorite being paraded.

My favorite number 8! Really, I just like this one because it wore pink, duh.


Look guys, more palm trees!

Once back at our seats we appeared so swanky, our endless movie quoting buddy (“remember that line from Airplane when…” kinda dude) stopped by our table so that we could place bets without having to get up from our very comfortable plastic chairs.

We were so swanky, our movie quoting buddy stopped by our table so we could place bets (then stopped at everyone else's, too).

So flattered…until he walked to the next table.

Our place betting friend only collected money, so we had to run (literally from excitement) to collect any winnings.

Running to collect his $2. Exciting!

Uncle Jimmy sprinting for his $2. Exciting!

I didn’t want to bet because I like keeping the money I have (to spend on Captain and clothes), so I went to the bar for another cocktail. And what I saw inspired me to immediately go on a liquid only diet.

Thinking my bar tender would look a little like the gentlemen who took bets, I decided I needed to double fist after this view.

Bartenders don’t look like this in Nashville.

To start my food cleanse, I decided it best to double up on the liquids.

Seeing her

Thank God I don’t bar tend in Miami!

Two handing vodka lead to an impromtu photo shoot of all surroundings.

Ooh a tractor in MIami definitely calls for a picture, right?

A tractor in Miami definitely calls for a picture, right?

I acted like I’d never seen a tattoo sleeve in my life when I walked briskly behind this guy to get a picture.  Any closer and his girlfriend might have decked me.

Acting like I'd never seen a snake or tattoo sleeve in my life, I took a picture - like any good tourist would do!


And I tried to have a little swagger as I moved around the place, trying to look like I ‘fit in.’

Just prancing around the track

Who me? I’m a local.

I never made an appearance in the casino but really wished I did when I saw what playing the quarter slots could land.

Where this dude spends most of his days..

Where this dude spends most of his days.

Hundred dollar bills, y’all!

Aunt Eenie was the big winner by playing the quarter slots!

Drinks on Aunt Eenie!

Anyone got a quarter I could borrow?