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Varmint turns 13 this week, and one of her good friends got her an excellent Bow and Arrow set.

(Varmint is an avid fan of the CW Series show ‘Arrow’.)

The family gave her about 5 minutes to play with it before they all started grabbing for a turn.

Critter had to one-up Varmint by shooting two arrows at once.

What?

And then Grandma Jane said, “Let me give it a whirl.”

The kids smirked and snickered.

And then promptly had their asses handed to them on the target board.

I love Varmint’s and Critter’s expressions here.  THAT is called being taken to school.

Don’t mess with Grandma Jane!  She’s one tough broad.

I don’t get dressed up often, but Critter’s fifth grade promotional ceremony was reason enough for me to break out my nicest skirt and crisp poplin blouse.  I was intent to honor my boy’s graduation from ‘little kids’ school’.

I have a pair of flats for this outfit that is exceedingly comfortable.  They’re actually Croc brand shoes, made with the same spongey material their ugly clogs are, but these are instead conservatively designed for business use.

As we prepared to leave, I looked down and saw something strange on one of my shoes.

Are those holes?  And why are they wet?

What the?

You have got to be kidding me.

My beautiful dress flats.

I’ll kill him.

Critter’s kitten had decided he was a dog, apparently.  Sir Monty had gnawed all the way around my left shoe.  I’m not made of money; I sure as heck can’t go buying new dress flats every time Sir Monty steals into my closet.

I said something to that effect when I angrily showed them to Critter.

“What are people going to think when they see these shoes?” I barked at him.

“Just explain to them that you saved a baby kitty’s life, and every time you see these shoes you remember what a good person you are.”

***sigh***

Aw hell.  That boy is smooth.  Damn smooth.

……And these are now my favorite shoes.

I’m not going to lie to you and make assertions that my house is any cleaner than any other soccer mom’s, but I do keep a fairly clean house.

It’s a little bit cluttered, but you won’t find two-week-old peanut butter and jelly sandwiches lying around.  Not often anyways.

Still and all, I do have to warn newcomers who walk in our house barefoot.   And it’s all because of Sir Monty of Stinky Butt.

(Just to clarify, Sir Monty of Stinky Butt is on the right in the picture above.  Though to be fair, the one on the left has been known to occasionally be stinky, too.)

No, he doesn’t leave piles of poo or piles of vomit (often).  What he does leave, and usually in the path most commonly walked in the kitchen, are piles of dried kitty food.

He takes a mouthful, walks over to a spot on the floor, and drops it.  And then he repeats.   Eventually he’ll eat some of those kibbles, but the majority of them he leaves right there.

And in case you are wondering, yes they do crush under 230 pounds, shoes, or no shoes.  And, also in case you are wondering, they hurt only slightly less than a Lego at 2:30 in the morning.

I don’t understand why he does this.  You don’t see me taking a mouthful of lasagna and leaving it on the floor repeatedly.   What is the stinkin’ point?

I don’t have an answer, I’m just putting this out there, in case any of you do.

I stopped by My Captain’s fire station yesterday bearing gifts.  One of his firefighters, Tom, and his wife, Leslie, just had a gorgeous baby boy named Parker.  This was the first time Tom had been back, so I stopped by to see how he was holding up as a brand spanking new father.

And of course, I brought goodies.

For Parker, the quintessential baby gift:

Drool Books.

But something more useful for Mommy and Daddy:

That’s right.  Caffeine.

I’m not going to blow smoke up their petooties and tell them parenthood is a cakewalk.  I’m all about getting things done.  Fixing the problem.  And let’s be honest. One of their biggest problems for the next 20 years will be sleep.  So Caffeine it is!

And plenty of it.

Better living through science.

But I didn’t just come bringing gifts for Tom and Leslie!  When I arrived, My Captain was just clearing an emergency down county where scaffolding had failed under some window washers. His Special Ops team was sent to help.   So I had a few minutes to wait….. and a freshly purchased rubber chicken.

If that wasn’t opportunity knocking, I don’t know what the sam-hill is.

Et Voila!

I plunked myself at Lt. Tom’s desk, and waited for My Captain to come back.  And then all I needed was a phone call to the station.

I wasn’t disappointed.

I totally live for this face.

Bonus:  It squeaks when it’s squeezed.  And you end up squeezing it when you pick up the receiver.

Now, I ask you, how can people in this world be unhappy when there are such things as squeaking rubber chickens?

Who can resist the redonkulousness of rubberized poultry?

No one, that’s who.

For any of you familiar with our newest kitty, Sir Monty of Stinky Butt, you know he keeps us laughing.  I’ve shared several of his weirdnesses, but I’ve been saving The Big One for you.

You know how some cats insist on being in attendance no matter what their human is doing?  Potty breaks included?  Sir Monty is one of THOSE kinds of pets.

Whenever I am on the throne, doing, er, important paperwork, Sir Monty feels compelled to be with me.  Well, not really with me, so much as on me.

He sits on my shoulder like a parrot to a pirate.

Which makes me some kind of toitey Black Beard, sailing the, er, stormy seas.

He’s an enigma, this kitty.  He sits there, patiently,  just waiting with his little tail wrapped around my neck.

Let’s be honest here:  Pooping is lonely business.  Why else do people notoriously bring the newspaper or magazines with them?  We’re all trying to distract ourselves from having to ponder the deep pit of despair within our existential separation!  Social media serve as a sort of shield against the meditational angst we would otherwise be forced to face in the quiet moments where we are captive audience to our own deep, dark thoughts.

And really, when you look at it that way, Sir Monty is merely trying to save me from myself.  That’s an exceptional kitty for you!  How lucky I am to have him sit on me while I’m doing my business!

But, of course, there is one small problem with this scenario.

I can’t just push him off of me, because he digs into my soft flesh with his wee needle-like kitten claws.  How something so cute can be so painful is beyond me.

Unless we are talking natural vaginal childbirth, then I totally get it.

When I need to move to get some toilet paper, he gives me a warning prick with his cute little blood-drawing daggers.  And God help me when I need to lean slightly to the side to, you know, ‘wrap up business.’  Believe me when I tell you it costs me in large amounts of pain and flesh.

I’ve learned to move slowly.

It’s gotten to the point where we could rate my morning constitutionals on the hospital pain scale.  You know, “Rate your pain, where 1 is no pain, and 10 is someone sawing your arm off.”   It might seem weird to apply that kind of scale to a trip to the John, but with Sir Monty, it’s appropriate.  Fiber has become more important to me, than ever before.

Don’t Judge.

*** PS *** After I put the photo above up on the post, I noticed on the bottom right of the photo none other then Moose, giving us the stink eye.  Awesome photo bomb, Moosie!

And a little creepy.