darkestnova

My sweet kitty gave birth the other day. I was under the impression that cats liked to go off alone to do this sort of thing,

...and that's where my draft was saved before the internet cut out. I was typing for half an hour about how Fosse came and got me when she went into labor and wouldn't let me leave her, and how amazing it was to witness the miracle of birth, and how she keeps bringing the babies to me and actually curled up on me to nurse them today, and how she just hid one in my shoe, and how Harvey doesn't like them--oddly enough, especially Gilda and Montoya. The others he'll tolerate, but he growled and hissed at them. I guess he liked being the only DC cat in the house.

Anybody out there want an adorable baby kitty? Montoya, Gilda-Duela, Evangeline, Edsel, Brannigan Darcy, and the Other Guy all need homes. Techie won't let me keep them.

Observe my pouty-face.

I can feel the babies kicking! My kittycat is so pregnant she's about to pop. I've got to get her fixed just as soon as she shoots them out.

Also, last night I had a dream based on Pride and Prejudice. It was a musical. But since I fell asleep last night still three or four chapters from the end, I couldn't be sure how it was all going to turn out. So I ended it with everyone running off to be nurses at the front during the Crimean War, and Mr. Darcy was killed. It was kind of horrible! And the song didn't help. "My sisters all are silly twits, but at least they won't all die old maids, my suitor has been blown to bits, oh why was he in the light brigade?" Then there was a verse about Cardigan and how he should have worn a sweater. Considering that I wrote this in my sleep, I'm actually kind of impressed.

(I know next to nothing about this war, beyond the Charge of the Light Brigade and Florence Nightingale, but Wikipedia tells me that it was fought forty years after the publication of the novel. Still a fun dream.)

I have all kinds of ranting to do about Stephenie Meyer and how she clearly didn't understand this novel, but I'll save that for another day, as well as my observations about Jane Eyre, which has been one of my favorite novels since I was ten years old (although I find I understand it much better as an adult) and would have been a much better basis for the story and characters she was trying to write. But later! I feel like all I ever do is complain, so I'll close out with something almost too cute to be borne.

When I visited the family for Christmas, all the cousins showed up, and we had a grand old time. But there was a bit of a mix-up with Red and Eli's stockings, and to make a long story short, since the presents I'd brought for all three kids were small and hadn't yet been wrapped, I ended up donating them to the cause. And now I guess my secret is out--I admit it. I'm Santa Claus.

My aunts felt kind of bad that I wasn't going to "get the glory" for the gifts, but I really didn't mind. I very much doubt that Red still believes in Santa Claus (she's hit puberty and has graduated from Little Red to Red Rabbit in my mind, because of her strong resemblance to Jessica Rabbit) and my Little Bug is too young to really understand what any of it means, so Eli is the only one who can't have any idea where his present really came from.

So a few days ago I got a thank you note from the Little Bug, interpreted by her mother:

"My mommy tells me that you are very good friends with Santa Claus. Please tell him how much I love my tiger with the glasses. It was great to spend time with you at Christmas. I love you!"

Now, this little lady is only a year old, and the only words she can say are mama, dada, bye-bye, Laura, and Eddie, but I can believe that the sentiments were hers, if not the wording. And I know she made the crayon scribble at the top of the page.

(Also, I'm hoping that someday she will marry Smegabyte's kidlet, because then, if she hyphenates her name, she will officially have the most interesting name in the history of language, although out of respect for other people's privacy I shouldn't reveal what that name would be.)

Ummm...blah. I keep wanting to post about a thing, but I can't seem to compose my thoughts. Besides, I'm afraid the wrong person will read it. I suppose I shouldn't worry, because if the thing is true, I shouldn't care what she thinks of me or what she has to say because she's an awful, awful person. But the thing is, even though I'm pretty sure I'm not just making things up...I don't trust my own memories. And I know intellectually that it's not because I'm delusional, but because certain parties have done nothing but lie to me for as long as I can remember. I know this. But I can't confront anyone about anything I think I know, because I can always expect to be told, "No, that never happened. Did That Woman tell you that? It takes a really sick mind to come up with something that twisted."

Oh neat, I'm about to cry. I was perfectly fine when I started typing. Angry and all, but not ...hrm. Going to go now. Too public. I really am much more emotionally stable than usual these days, though. Magic cannibal antidepressants. (They also fixed my breaky spine. Haven't worn my back brace since the day after Christmas.)

I'm better now. But tired of typing. And tired of being inside. I want to go out and...be out. It's all grey and things still look dead, but winter is over. It's still a little chilly, and I'm sure the weather won't be really nice for another month or so, but it's not miserable even by my southern standards.

Miserably cold, by the way, to me means so cold I bundle up under all my blankets at night with kitties wrapped around my feet and am still too cold to sleep. I've found myself desperately missing my old, heated apartment. But at the same time, I'm kind of glad to live in a place where the landlords don't think it's worthwhile to install heaters in their more cheap-ass apartments. My mother says in Pittsburgh no one has an air conditioner. This concept confuses and frightens me. I am not looking forward to leaving here for there.

...and I'm getting all weepy again. Am I really getting emotional over the thought of Alabama getting an early start on spring just to say goodbye to me? Christ almighty, I really don't want to leave this place. Cool!

.......huh.

I was going to write an essay on Disney princesses/animated heroines and race and gender politics, and I went to Wikipedia to get a list of names for reference...and I happened to read about Disney's upcoming films, Rapunzel--which looks cute, but is CGI and therefore disappointing--and King of the Elves.

King of the Elves? Seriously? Disney is making a movie based on a Philip K. Dick short story? I need confirmation. And if I get it, I'm going to explode.

So productive this week. Finished two fics. Cannibal juice.

*goes back to eating*

I've actually been sticking to the vegan plan, but today I was hungry and bored--a deadly combination. So an innocent cow has been slaughtered for my amusement. And it is delicious.

I'm on the internet! My grandmother sent me a new computer for Christmas. YAYS! (She also sent me a big-ass box of Kilwin's truffles.)

There's no internet at my apartment, though. I had to take it to Wendy's to get online.

I'm going to become their new best customer. So much for my plan to go vegan.

Also, Joe gave me magic cannibal juice, and since I started taking it I seem to have undergone a total personality change. I think I like it.

Boy, am I glad I uploaded that fic last night, just in case. My flash drive appears to have been wiped clean in the night. Okay. I don't have to panic about this. Everything is backed up. It's all on Lappy, which may not be as dead as I believe it to be, and it's all on the external hard drive, which is only about six months out of date, and I have hard copies of almost all of it. I've lost almost nothing. I don't have to panic. I'm panicking. I lost the fucking CATverse. This is the opposite of a Christmas miracle.

I HAVE A BABY!

The holiday blues came back, so after work I drove to my Granny's house.

Actually, the thought of coming here was what set me off in the first place. But it was unneccessary. Everything is fine. I have no need to worry about my emotional well-being where my Granny is concerned. None.

Also, I didn't die on the interstate.

Have you ever woken up from a dream wondering what the smegging hell it all meant? That happened to me the other day. Not because it was overly surreal or laden with symbolism--it was actually much more straightforward than usual. But the entire thing was in French.

I woke up from it, sat up in bed, and said, "Je ne parle pas le Français." Actually, that's not what I said. That's what dictionary.com tells me I said, but what I actually said was slightly different, only now I don't remember what it was.

I do understand a little bit of French, but only a very little. Not enough to make a coherent story (narration and all.) And it was perfectly coherent, except that I couldn't understand a word I, the narrator, or my handsome companion were saying. I think we were looking for a missing suitcase with something important inside it. It might have fallen into the river. It was actually all sort of Nouvelle Vague. *shrug*

So why do I believe in the magic of Christmas? Because I watched Ernest Saves Christmas the other day and...it filled me with the warm and fuzzies. Damn weird.

You know, when I was in the third grade, in Tampa, Florida, my best friend, Dreama, was a child actress. And so was her older sister, Angelique. They were both very talented singers...I don't know about their acting ablitities, since I was nine years old and had no idea what it took to be an actress. But since Dreama had the part of Claudia in Interview With a Vampire before Kirsten Dunst did, and only passed on it because her mother read the script and decided there were religious incompatibilities, she must have had some talent. (Every time I see Kirsten Dunst, I think, "That could have been Dreama. She could have played Mary Jane and she wouldn't have sucked." I'm not so impressed with Kirsten Dunst's acting talent, and Dreama wouldn't have had to wear a wig...but I digress.)

They mostly acted on stage. (Dreama was trying out for Baby June in Gypsy that year, and she made me practice with her as Louise. To this day, I think I could play that part in my sleep.) But what actress doesn't want to get into film?

So I'm watching Ernest Saves Christmas, and feeling the warm and fuzzies, and as the credits start to roll, I catch the name Angelique Walker.

*blink blink*

Angelique?

Let's see...the movie was shot in Orlando...she would have been eight years old at the time...*rewinds it* Yes, that's her! She was sixteen when I knew her, but I can definitely see her in this little girl at the bus station, arguing with her brother over whether or not Santa Claus is real. Cool!

So today I sneaked into the library (they're doing construction on the ground floor, so it took some doing to get up here to the computers) and I looked up Dreama on Facebook, and...yay! She's made it as an actress. Mostly small parts, mostly television, mostly stuff I've never heard of. But still, she's doing it. And I'm damn proud. She was in the Sex and the City movie...and Gossip Girl. Is that a big deal? I don't know these things anymore. I need cable. Cable and internet.

I believe in the magic of Christmas! God bless us, every one.

So I'm with my parents and...I just want to go home. Even though everything is lovely and good. Maybe because of that. Meh.

Also, I have the Black Death. It's the best disease I've ever gotten! Especially in the mail.



I tossed it at Techie, but she failed to catch it.

Thank you, Smegabyte!


(Ooooh, they have Streptococcus pyogenes! I was terrified I was going to get that when I was a kid.)

Alive. Blah.

Football may be a big deal in other parts of the country--in fact, I know it is--but only in the southeast would we blow up a school over it.

I glanced at the paper during a slow moment at work this morning, and read an interesting little story. Twenty-five years ago this week, Central High School (where I deliver quite frequently) was undefeated and riding high. Then they suffered a crushing defeat by Tuscaloosa County High. Central responded by planting a bomb at County's front doors. No one was killed, but there was some serious damage done to the lobby.

High school football, guys. That sort of fervor pales in comparison to feelings over college ball. I am not looking forward to working the LSU game this weekend.

Sent to me by my grandmother:




And it begins...

For me, Halloween was never really about the candy or the costumes or the mayhem. It was about the horror movie marathons all month on every channel. So this year, without cable, what was the point?

I did almost kill a guy with the sheer force of my hotness. It was neat. You know, once he'd started breathing again and all.

Herbert made an amazing Wesley Dodds. And Fluffy was just precious as Pee-wee Herman.

(Weird thing, though: without my glasses, I kept looking at him and thinking he was John. I am very nearly legally blind without corrective lenses, so it probably doesn't mean anything, but still.)

I forgot about Daylight Saving Time, so I'm just killing time for an hour. Bored.

Ow. Slammed my hand in a door. I've never had anything purple up this fast. Neat to watch.

I was misinformed regarding the scheduling of Rocky Horror. I can make it if I rush through closing. But it just doesn't seem worth the effort anymore. I don't care today. About anything. At all. Ten minutes ago a bus almost hit me. Meh.