Some days just make you want to pick up and ax and start swinging.

Like today. It's not just because it's a Monday. It's not just because my shoes won't cooperate with my feet. It's because I spent the day putting out fires as deftly as a blind fireman. Not even important fires. Just various, small-potato fires. Which has now made me hungry for potatoes in general.

It's non-splendid days like today that make me wonder what the hell I was thinking in college. And also, if I were to pick up an ax right now, which one would I prefer?

The Woodman’s Pal Axe
Offers superior productivity in all cutting and clearing tasks. 16" Long. Available with nonslip leather grip with thumb and hand guards or hardwood handle. Both models include Cordura® sheath and sharpening stone. Made in U.S.A.






That would be great for clearing people out like undergrowth in the Amazon. But I like variety. Perhaps I'd have to go with the truly versatile-looking model.

MAX Multi-Purpose Axe
Incorporates seven basic hand tools into one compact, versatile unit: A Hudson Bay style axe head permanently attached to a 36" Fiberglass handle, with six quick-attach tools: shovel, mattock, pick, broad pick, fire rake and hoe. All components are drop-forged from high quality tool steel and fit into a compact olive drab canvas case that can be carried on a belt or strapped to a pack. Weighs only 12-1/2 lbs. Comes complete with all tool attachments, thumbscrew tightener, six safety hitch pins, leather axe sheath, canvas bag and heavy-duty cardboard storage box. Note: Replacement parts available. Call for details.







Rats. If only it had a corkscrew. Actually, I am comforted by the attractive simplicity of this one.

USFS Approved Pulaski Axe
Combination grub hoe/axe manufactured to USFS specifications. Designed for chopping, grubbing, and digging fire lines in brush-filled or rocky terrain. Drop forged, carbon steel, 4 lb. head prevents chipping and holds a sharp edge. 3´L Hickory handle.






Paint it pink, and I think we have a winner.

Buttmunch... assbastard...son-of-a-whore... Ahhhh, Springtime in Memphis.

Ron likes to call it Memphis Diamonds. I call it smashed auto glass littering the scene. That's why I love him. Hopefully, I won't corrupt his attitude when I say car thieves in particular should all get hit by runaway Amtraks and dragged several miles until almost dead. Then the circus comes to town, the elephants go all rogue and trample the dying remains of the dragged bastards who can't die until the elephants eat them, partially digest them and then crap them out onto hot, summer blacktop.

True I get tired of springtime here, seeing those violated, busted-out, snaggle-toothed windows and jacked-up screwdrivered moulding. But dammit, the food here is really good.

I am not even gonna get worked up about this now because, ha HA, they didn't get my black leather security blanket address book with parts of my brain in it. The nerd-ass dayplanner was saved by some divine intervention. I found it up here at work after almost throwing a good cry and a good remote through my apartment window. The asshat didn't even take my Cool Drink Fund – that stash of cash I keep in the toll change holder. All they got were some burnt out old CDs I was sick of anyway. Except for that Dead Milkmen one, erggh. Oh well. "Enjoy the compilation CD of every song with the word 'smile' in it that I snagged out of the garbage can here at work! You'll really enjoy using that as a crack pipe coaster." And now I actually have an excuse to buy fresh, new Radiohead CDs.

For the house.

Red Bull gives you wings. And gas, I think.

Has anyone tried one of these and liked them? I consider myself an open-minded tester, taster and most-of-the-time fan of strange sodas. But Red Bull, leaded and unleaded, sugar and sugar-free, is definitively nasty. Even though it says on the can that it will increase your something (apparently not "memory") and will stimulate metabolism, I can't endorse it. Rats. Because anything that claims to stimulate metabolism means I'll drink it. "Dirty boiled rainwater with mushrooms in it? Yuck!!... oh wait, says here it burns calories... gimme a straw."

As a timesaver for you, I say that Red Bull tastes like some type of overly tart vitamins melted in a glass of Alka Seltzer. It's just not right. Really, it's just not. And I've tasted many, many fizzy oddities, but this drink, I'm fascinated by how unpalatable it really is compared to how successful it appears. But that's advertising for you. Unless Red Bull can be used successfully in some type of cocktail or bar concoction... enough really.

Now here's a product that I really thought I would hate:



Any product that hides behind the thin ad-veil of consumer convenience really just ends up making a whole lot of people a whole lot more money (and hint, those people are not you or me) and simply gyps a person out of a seated lunch hour. Which is always enough to make me paint a protest sign and march up and down Wall Street. As if anyone cared right this moment, or ever, however you get the point.

But this soup is damn good. And damn cheap. And damn easy to make, with a couple of minutes in the 'wave and ta da. Honestly, I think I just found my new favorite food. And it fits perfectly into my new Shania Twain Everything Ingested Must Be Juiced First Dietplan. And it's filling, too. True, that could be the leftover Red Bull bloat talking, but I don't think so. Give me this moment alone with my soup.

If you try this soup, just don't support the capitalist bull of working through lunch while you do it. Eat this sitting down, not on-the-go. If you do this, you actually win in taste, price and cause.

Forgive me, I'm still a little tired from the nuptial trip. And from last night's sporadic catfight in the foyer which didn't seem to stir any of us. Not my sparkling-new husband, not my freight-train dog, nor Googie, Honorable Cat Number One. It was a surreal moment in existence, something small that signified that sometimes change really is for the better. This catfight wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to live with just one cat until one of us died. Then all of a sudden, here's two more added in. And these two are vocal. I can now tell the difference between the bloody squeal of Beepers and the loathing howl of Kitty Kat. As I've said before, catfights are as horrible as they are funny to witness. This sound that came out of the hall, two months ago, would've panicked me so bad that blood would've shot to my hands and throbbed. But now, without even looking up to the sound of what my mind heard as a gobbling turkey being strangled to death, it didn't even stir me.

So I looked over to Ron, who never broke soft snore. Fingers twitching in a dream. Then I looked over to Googie at the window. He was looking over his shoulder at the two midnight brawlers with his ears back in distaste. I thought about sitting up to see if either of the fisticats were dead. Then I thought "Eh, it's tile. It'll wash." And then to validate the moment, I heard a deep Otis dog sigh from the floor over on Ron's side of the bed. And at that, it was official. We all made it.

I know I'm supposed to be working.

But odds are, so are you.

So here's one wedding photo I gotta post for now.



I didn't tell you that I married two guys, did I? Yes, reverse Mormonism.

No actually, the guy on the left is Reverand Derek.

Good story, huh?

I Did.

With the help of a few dearly beloved, Mission Whirlwind Marriage at Niagara is now complete.

My head is MIA somewhere on an Amtrak train. Probably the FootyHoobaStank Express to Buffalo. But it's things like that which strengthen the ties that bind.

Many heartfelt thanks to out to th' Righteous Mr. Nort-o-Tron 2000+, my peeps who got ten kinds of nastie, Katherine and Beth, and props to the Korean bartender/owner of Captain...Something. It was all too much fun to be had by all.

Also thank you to all the people who decorated my office while I was out. I'm leaving it all up. You know that, right? I'm sorry I missed my own party. And definitely never last nor least, to the lovely Mistress Jacquie Queen for tending the Circle K Kat Ranch Litterbox. You and your Danielo will be showered with love, affection and parmesan cheese at Pete & Sams. Dress comfortably in stretchpants and skirt. No fighting over whose legs looks better in skirt!

I will have no other choice but to share and purge here in the next few days. Many stories to tell and many more photos to show. But for now, I have many-much-more work to catch up on. But I will leave you with the tagline that I believe sums up the lovely, extremely clean and breezy Niagara Falls, Ontario:

Ontario. You could sit on the public toilet seats. You could.

I'm down with OCD.

Now Googie is shedding. Enough said. Butler, fetch me my lint brush.

So why do I still I love them all? Because I'm insane, I tell ya, insane. And they are gold.

Speaking of that, check out where we're hoping to relocate the Apartment Farm sometime in June:





For the past two days, I've been willingly and unwillingly staying home in the Apartment Farm. To round out the scenario, I downloaded the absolute coolest screensaver yet from www.floydianslip.com. It's a lush, meadow scene with an ancient Wishing Tree look-alike, complete with the ambient sounds of sheep, doves the silence of a flying pig in the distance. So now, when I see a small, white kitty heaped atop the couch cushion or a small, skinny one roaming aimlessly down in the tiled foyer, I think of happy, lazing or grazing livestock, enjoying the sun and fresh air. And best part of all, no one is swatting flies.

What I didn't know about the screensaver is that it's formatted in realtime, and as the night falls outside, so does the scene of the screensaver. Kind of like that game, Black & White, if you know it. Best thing is in Ron's opinion, the "freaky sheep noises" stop at nightfall and the sky is complete with constellations that grow brighter as the night goes darker. I don't know enough astronomically to know if they are my coordinates, but I'm guessing they are. The very coolest thing is every now and then, a falling star streaks by.

Ahhhhh. Home, home again.

Phone call: Scott just got a dog. He says she's a good dog. She likes to lie around on the bathroom floor. I haven't seen her yet, but she is apparently a little white beagle-ish dog that, well, likes to lie around on the bathroom floor. I bet she is the sweetest thing. He wants to name her MeatWad, but if she's lucky she'll end up with SuperDog instead.

Wonder if SuperDog needs any Action Cat Friends...

Girls like flowers. Don't ever give them anything else except flowers... and sparkly things... and chocolate... and soft things... and anything that smells good like flowers.

Your moment of Zen.

No. No one died. Yet.

Actually, at the risk of voodoo-super-jinxing the whole arrangement this time, everyone has now found his or her own little place in the apartment.

Beepers stays under the bed, only coming out at night to get batted like a badminton birdie or jumping up on the bed in the morning to drool on me. I forgot one of her other names was Spitty Kitty.

Otis-Otard-Tardo-Otardia has been voted MVP for the past two days. Googie lost points by trying to wear Beeper's butt as a hat in those last two days. Otis the Supertard has been spending quality time in his new *pLaYhOuSe* like a VERY GOOD BOY AGAIN.

Kitty Cat is growing on me. She played with my hair a little and then bit me. She likes nothing and no one except for one thing: my bamboo plant. She ate five leaves off during the night.

So I bought her a fresh catnip plant. She sniffed it, she licked it, she growled and then she drew her head back slightly and bashed her face right in the top of it like a three year-old with a birthday cake or a clown with a cream pie. I had to take it away from her only to find it this morning splayed in the middle of the carpet like the Central Park jogger.

Worth every penny.

It's only fair to leave this behind as evidence in his murder trial.

Dear Judge:

I hereby give notice of my permission granted to Ron for 4/03/03 to shoot me with the big gun, not the little one, if I don't get some decent sleep tonight. Or, in the event that he doesn't figure out how to shoot it in time before I grab him, this is why I shot him.

thanks.

'Til Cats Do Us Part

Last night, we introduced the final animal to the pack. It's Cowgirl Kitty Cat. Running the risk of jinxing things further, she seemed fine. Growling, hissing, spitting. These were all acceptable reactions from me, not the cats. Superstar Team Player Googie has been voted MVP for not injuring anyone or anything or running away screaming into the night. Go, Googs. Gimme a G!

Kitty Cat has been exceptionally cool so far. No slapping yet from her side, or mine. Even though she hates everything and everybody, she has comforted Beepers with that familiar hate. The abused reunites with the abuser.

The abused cat formerly known as Beepers, now known as Scary Cat Scream in the Night from Under My Bed, has now earned a new name more fitting: Insensitive Bitch Cat Walking All Over my Face Like a Roach on a Relief Map. For the sake of brevity, I'll just call her Damn Cat.

Despite the shrieking night terrors, Damn Cat was the perfect cat. Stowed away under a bed with the occasional growl. Only slinking into the litter box for a quick one and then back under the bed. Last night, she came out of her shell. I hope she goes back in it today.

Speaking of today, Otis has a new *pLaYhOuSe*. Petco refers to it as the Midwest Championship Collection Fold & Carry Series Pet Kennel. My grandma would call it a dog pen. But to Otis, it's his very own, secret-super-special, No Kats Allowed *pLaYhOuSe*. He slept in it last night like a VERY GOOD BOY. Today will be his first day to stay in it without us around. I think I can hear him barking now.

So that leads us to next week's entry which will be entitled "Eviction Notice: Bark is a four-letter word." Incessant barking has 16 letters, but you get the point.

I'm never having kids. And I still love Ron. So I must be insane. But I got that farm I always wanted; it's just in a two room apartment instead.

To make myself feel better, I am going to vaccuum this weekend. That ought to cause a sustained chain cat reaction so powerful I could light up the block. Feline fission. Personally, I can't wait.

Cats

Looks like I will have three.

One is named Beepers. I think she should be renamed Scary Cat Scream in the Night from Under My Bed after last night.

Ron is slowly integrating his two slightly irritated cats and his 20-section freight-train dog complete with oblivious, china-breaking tail in with my fluffy-bunny cat who actually hovers around the room on a silver, angelic cloud. After last night, I think one might have burned up in re-entry. He said he'd check for body parts before I got home tonight.

The other cat is named Kitty Cat. She has no claws but makes up for it with lots of cattitude. At least we know who not to blame when my beloved couch is in shreds.

The things we do for love and free cat massages. More on that later.

Beepers was last seen (actually, last heard) somewhere under my bed. She only came out twice to use the litter box. If she just got rid of her night terrors, I think she might just be the perfect cat.

Kitty Cat licks the insides of her back legs until all the fur comes off. Nobody's quite sure if it's the hate or the nerves or both, but from behind she looks like a naked, bow-legged cowgirl with gray-and-white spotted fur chaps.

Yeah, I'm big enough to admit I've stared at the cat's ass. What of it.

Besides her wide, butterfly yellow eyes, the best thing about Kitty Cat is Beauty Parlor. She loves hair. Even wet hair is good. To play Beauty Parlor, you have to sit on the couch just so your head is level with the top of the couch. Kinda like leaning your head back into the basin to have it washed at the salon. But this cat does it for free. Toss, tousle and muss your hair once really good with both hands and that's her Pavlovian cue to restyle your hair, with all four feet sometimes. Mostly just with her front feet, sometimes with a futile attempt to take a bite out of your head like it was a red, ripe apple. Since she can't get quite the right grip on a human head, all this ends up feeling like a stimulating head massage.

And since she has no claws, all this is deemed O.K. Otherwise, it could certainly pass for a bloody, medieval torture ritual.

Kitty Cat hates everybody and everything except for Ron. I think Kitty Cat and I will have fun.

Sticking a fork in the toaster.

Giving the cat a bath.

Walking through a minefield.

Eating a tomato-based product in a white shirt.

As I sit in front of this computer, taking a monkey bath with leftover bottled water from yesterday, trying to wash out this tiny (but I can see it) orange dribble stain directly in the center of my new white shirt, I remember this is exactly why I don't buy light colored shirts. Look at me, I'm like a kid with a red popsicle.

Inviting a wanted felon into your house to do odd jobs.

Standing in a bed of ants.

Why do I think it'll be any different the next time around? I think it's optimism. The damned optimism.