I feel like I need to take a step back and recharge my batteries.  A great many of my readers are also friends on Facebook, so you have witnessed how up and down my life has been the last couple years.  It's been chaos in its purest form, and I honestly think a brief hiatus would help.  I'm on the fast track to burning myself out, I can see it coming a mile away, so I think it's time I just stop for a minute.  Remind myself of those important things in life.  My health, for starters.  My kids.  Both of them, my little ginger demon Daniel and the little spoken-of Alex.  But that's my issue, not yours, so it need not be discussed now.

There's been a lot going on up in my neck of the woods, and it seems like every single time I turn around, I've been neck-deep in some shit or another.  I'm just glad Daniel's been with his dad for it, because there have been nights I haven't come home simply because I'm too tired to make the drive.  Nothing illegal, I assure you.  But I gotta keep myself fed somehow.  If all else fails, I'm a damn useful minion when the occasion calls for it.  But that's part of why I sent him to Daddy's to begin with: I knew I was gonna be running like a chicken with its head cut off to make ends meet while taking this boot camp.

I've run myself ragged, and if I keep on like this, I feel like I'm going to drown.  And I know I'm repeating myself, but my brain just can't really form the right words to describe how I'm feeling.

And the boot camp thing.... I did learn, I did.  But I feel like my grasp on the logics and the way it all fits together just isn't strong enough yet to benefit the company that trained me.  I fully admit that I do need more training, but right now, I can't go through more training.  I'm just in no position to.  I've stretched my resources as thin as I could without snapping, and I can't stretch any more.  When I am once again in a position where I COULD go through more training, I will.

But... I need my kids.  My emotions have been going haywire, and each day in a quiet, mostly clean, empty apartment is a little worse than the last.  I miss my little ginger snot, and I would honestly like a chance to get to know the little blonde idjit my mother describes to me.

I know some people don't believe in mental well-being and health to be just as important as physical health, but there is a point where it is.  I cannot stay focused on anything right now, and I feel it would be in EVERYBODY'S best interests as related to me if I went home for a bit.

So I'm going to.  I'm gonna play and laugh and remember what it's like to enjoy life.  I'm 25, for fuck's sake.  I should not be feeling THIS bad.  It's a bit ridiculous.

QOTD - Anatomy Edition

When having one of the few female discussions I get with a fellow blogger and parent, and you KNOW how those conversations tend to lean...


"Parasailing Out My Bajingo is gonna be the name of my Queensryche cover band. Just because."

- Sabra

Hip hip hoorah

Better men than me have written wise words in regards to what today means in the history of our country, so I'm not even going to try, beyond saying that it is another day that will live in infamy, though fewer and fewer will speak of it. Just like 9/11, the truest of patriots will never let the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor be forgotten.

And now, onto other news.

RobbAllen is not the only one who has been doing soul searching. But he admits to having no soul as well as no pants, and I am a whole other ball game. I do have a soul, I just don't know what to do with it at this juncture in my life.

I have a Bible, given to me by a friend. I'm in a rough spot in my life, as some of my closer friends in the blogosphere have been told. Got the job, got the apartment, got the friends and the car and I'm doing pretty well for myself, considering how things in the past have gone for me since I started SFTSM. But it's hard, it really is. I'm lonely. I mean, I have Fake Redhead here with me, and she is a grand friend, don't get me wrong. But a lot of nights, my mind is full of so many thoughts that I just can't voice to her because while we have gone through a lot of the same hardships in life, there are some things that she hasn't suffered through, not to mention we don't have the same mindset in a lot of ways, so she wouldn't understand what is bothering me most of the time. I don't want to burden her with that weight, so I just keep my mouth shut.

I can see myself blogging a bit more now, and she can turn her phone into a wifi hotspot long enough for me to upload a post whenever the fancy strikes me. Don't expect me to start posting as often as Tam, though. Don't get your hopes up quite yet, ya'll. Being a single mother, even with a roommate who is a parent and is willing to help, I'm still strapped for free time and the urge to write, whether it be a blog post, a letter, or pure fiction (not all can be found here, smart asses). But I do have a feeling that I might be able to crank out a small handful of posts in a month's time, and who knows, hopefully sooner or later we will actually have internet here.

But anyway. What was I saying? Oh yes. The Bible.

I'm lonely. I have a few friends, but not many. I'm on my own, with no one I can turn to at any hour of the day and night. I'm pretty lost most of the time, and I must admit, I'm drowning under the weight of trying to both be a responsible adult and survive and live up to the expectations that people have of me. Remember the blog post a few months back, where I said I wanted to just be ME, and not the Dickless Guy Friend for a while? Yeah, shit like that.

But... I'm alone. I realize that. I can feel myself going down that slippery slope into the territory of being a Bad Person, and I don't want to turn into that. And right now, I need some sort of guidance. I'm not saying I believe in God quite yet, or that I'm ready to start attending church. I don't know what I believe, but I do know that I don't want to feel so damned alone. And several close personal friends have suggested that maybe going to church and praying would be good for me. Help my soul find some peace, maybe rid myself of some of the anguish that I carry daily. Good ol' Stud Roomie from last year understood it, he understood me very well. He knew how to read my moods and adapt to them, and he knew how to calm me down from a fiery rage with barely a word. I miss him, more than words can describe. That man truly was my best friend.

Who knows. Maybe I will start to believe. Maybe I will go to church. Who knows, maybe some day, against all odds, some of you weirdos will receive invitations to a wedding starring me that takes place in a church. It's too early to tell, of course, but anything can happen, right? That's what they keep telling me, anyway.

~*~*~

I have a Christmas tree in the trunk of my car at the moment. After hauling groceries up and putting them away (I live in a second story apartment), my out-of-shape ass was too damn tired to go back down and haul the tree up. It's a light little thing, just a four foot fake one because there's no room in my apartment for a full sized monstrosity, plus they didn't have the one I wanted in six foot size. But still. Those stairs are a bitch when you're fat and out of shape. But there's a tree, I promise, and ornaments, and everything. Fake Redhead loves this time of year, and she's looking forward to decorating and doing the Christmas thing with me and Daniel. I may have to make some peppermint hot cocoa and allow her to play Christmas music while we decorate it at some point this weekend. I hate Christmas music, like no other. There's only so many ways you can re-do the same songs before they make me want to shove an ice pick in my ear. Fake Redhead, of course, ADORES Christmas music. Go figure. But I think for the sake of doing the holiday thing right, I'll let it slide for one day and she can play the music. Maybe we can even get Daniel to understand it. Last year the holiday explanation sort of fell by the wayside, but now Daniel is talking and understanding a lot better, so I think when we decorate the tree, we'll try and get him excited for it.

~*~*~

Daniel gets to go see his dad pretty regularly, I will say. Every couple of weeks we drive down for a weekend visit, because I live two hundred miles away. I would have preferred to live in Springfield, because that town is more my pace and my size, and I have a lot of fun there, but last time I tried finding a job, it just didn't work. Really enjoy the town, but even if it was just me, I couldn't even begin to make ends meet on a hundred bucks a week from donating plasma.

Every now and then Daniel goes to stay with his dad for a week. I'm mature enough to admit that I occasionally need a break, and though his dad is a raging twat and we only get along in small increments, he does love his son. He's just not so great with being a full-time father, so weekends and occasional week-long visits work. He stayed with him over Thanksgiving break, and the week before Christmas he's gonna go stay again with Dad. I'll pick him up the weekend before Christmas, and then we're gonna go visit my very good friend Madame Lawyer in St. Louis.

Madame Lawyer is a new character in this story, too. She's pretty fantastic. She says she's gonna adopt me, because I've helped her with some personal issues, so she's looking out for me whenever she can. And hey, who couldn't use a lawyer in their corner from time to time? But she's been pretty close over the past couple of months, and she's like “Gurl, you need a break. Bring Daniel out for a weekend and we'll go to the zoo and we'll go ice skating and we'll do all manner of stuff and you'll have a nice little mini-vacation.”

… Okay, cool with me. The Civic gets fantastic gas mileage, so it won't cost me an arm and a leg for gas like it would with the Death Star, though I still miss that truck like nobody's business. So I'm gonna go to St. Louis the weekend before Christmas, and Daniel and Fake Redhead and I will have Christmas here in Casa de Snark. Don't know quite yet what we'll do as far as Christmas dinner goes, but hey, that's not the important part. Family and friends and love are.

~*~*~

So that's how things are rocking here. I got a feeling you will start to see more blog posts from me, simply for the catharsis. I've got so many thoughts spinning like a whirlwind in my skull I fear I'll go insane most days, so this would definitely help. It's why I started writing here to begin with, right? Why not take advantage of that?

Goodnight, internet. Til next time, same Snark time, same Snark channel.

I'm still alive, I promise

-->

YES, MY FAITHFUL MINIONS, I AM STILL ALIVE.

Seriously, I am, for reals. Stop worrying, it's okay. I PROMISE.

Also, I'd just like to apologize now in advance, because I have been spending an APPALLING amount of time on Tumblr, where I am part of several different fandoms and I have turned into a totally apeshit fangirl over the Winchester brothers (from Supernatural - oh god I love that show so hard, it makes me happy in the pants). So I've started to, uhm, talk like I'm on Tumblr. All the time. Which means I say things like “OH BABY YOUR FACE IT'S DOING THAT THING WHERE I JUST WANT TO KISS YOU” and the really stupid one, “I CAN'T EVEN. I HAVE LOST THE ABILITY TO CAN.”

Yeah. It's pretty bad. Some of my immediate family are staging an intervention as we speak.

ANYWAY.

I don't have internet at home. But the good news is, I DO have a job, and I DO have an apartment of my own! Isn't that astonishing? I know, you're all so very proud of me. Never thought I'd make it this far, right?

So I've been living on my own for a few months (with Daniel, of course), and then the week before Thanksgiving, a friend/coworker of mine, Fake Redhead, called me before work. Her boyfriend (now EX) is a monumental douchebag that announced at 3 AM after he got off work (via text, in true douchebag fashion) that he had been cheating on her and that she had to be moved out by that afternoon because he was moving the new girlfriend in.

I got this call at 6:30 AM. This was the SECOND time that she had called me at such an ungodly hour, the last time being when he had come home drunk and gotten physical with her and kicked her out, then taken off with her minivan and pulled the spark plug cables out of his so she couldn't take it. So I called in sick that day, drove out and helped her pull ALL of her crap out, kept a good portion of it (mostly books) in the back of my car for a couple of days (oh god the Rogue Five was THRILLED WITH THAT) and she stayed in a motel room. Of course, a few days later, he begged her to come home and she did, and they had seemed like they were doing really good for a while, even according to her, so this was pretty out of left field and completely unexpected.

Back to what I was saying. She had the minivan, he told her he would sign the title of it over to her, but she had to leave. She had nowhere to go. She moved to this area a couple years back WITH HIM, so she didn't have any real friends or anything like that, and she knew I had helped her before and she could probably call me for help again. I had told her I had been in a position very similar to hers on more than one occasion in the past, and I just can't stand by when a woman needs help and I can do something, because I have been there and needed the help myself.

She didn't have anywhere to go, so she's staying with me for a while. She's been here a couple weeks now, and here's the astonishing part: we get along FANTASTICALLY. I have had very, VERY few female friends in the past, as I'm sure most of you are aware, so having one that is very much like me in quite a few ways that I actually get along with is somewhat.... um.... boggling, to be perfectly honest. We have gone through a lot of the same mistreatments from men, suffered a lot of similar bad lucks. And, truth be told, even though my apartment is STUPID CHEAP (all things considered), the extra help with finances would be greatly appreciated. Where we both work, calling to conduct phone surveys (yes, you hate me, I know), when our respective projects run out of numbers, we get sent home early, and that's that. So there have been more than a few paychecks that have NOT been my promised 38 hours a week, and that shit hurts. But she is on a different team than me, so when I'm getting sent home by 11 AM every day for a week straight, she's working ALL day. It helps.

So, as it stands now, since we are doing so well cohabitating without murdering each other, come spring time (and tax time, whoo!), we will be looking into getting a bigger place, so she will actually have, you know, a BEDROOM, and not be sleeping on my couch. As well as more space for organization, because I don't have a lot of stuff, and she has a FUCK TON of stuff and I have zero storage space in my apartment. Approximately one-quarter of my living room is lost to the mountain of her belongings that we have no place to put.

Als+ o, I'm up to my eyeballs in pussy. I have my one little demon furball, Diesel, and Fake Redhead brought her three little nutters, Princess, Phoenix, and Dragon. Daniel is delighted, because he loves the kitties and Phoenix and Dragon, the two brothers, like to sleep with him at night. Princess, aka mama cat, pretty much stays hidden all the time, and Diesel... Diesel just kind of does her own thing. She lays in the middle of my TOTALLY BAD ASS tiger rug (which, in case you missed it, I fucking love) and blends in surprisingly well, considering she's a black-and-grey tabby and my rug is well... tiger-striped But the stripes help her blend, because I cannot tell you how many times I have tripped over or stepped on the little fuzzball. She's very soft, and very affectionate, and I love her. No replacement for my dearly beloved Ping, but he vanished last fall and has not been seen since, and considering he had over a dozen years on the planet under his belt, I'm not holding out hope that he's still alive at this point. Breaks my heart, but I know better than to have foolish hope anymore.

Ahhhh, fun times. Uhm. What else can I say here?

OH YEAH. My job. I hates it. It sucks with the fiery burning passion of a thousand suns, no lie. I call to conduct phone surveys, market research. So I'm the irritating twat that calls you and says “Hello, my name is Snarky, calling on behalf of Capital One Bank. May I speak to the person who recently visited the Capital One Branch for your business? We are conducting a satisfaction survey on the quality of service you received on a recent visit to Random Branch Name and your opinions are very important, so we would like to include you in this research study. Overall, how satisfied were you with the service you received on your most recent visit to Random Branch? Would you were completely satisfied, very, somewhat, not very, or not at all satisfied?” So on and so forth.

My job SUCKS. But it's (usually) pretty steady hours, easy pay, and I get to sit and read, or write, or crochet (because Fake Redhead has taught me how to crochet) or do whatever while I'm working, because we call a lot of numbers that get no answer or answering machine or anything, not to mention people who don't want to do the surveys or the answering machines we hit. Lots of free time, yo. And I've made some pretty cool friends, to boot. Fake Redhead, Older Cute Guy (that should be illegal, I swear to god!), Scratcher, the whole nine yards. They're pretty awesome. I just wish I had more free time in the evenings to socialize, but since Fake Redhead is here, she has volunteered to watch Daniel if I want to go out for whatever reason and do things without having to drag hyperactive toddler around. That's so nice of her. She's pretty fucking fantastic, if I do say so myself.

In addition to being just an awesome chick to be around, Fake Redhead has earned a special place in my mother's heart, working her devil magic like she is. I've started wearing make-up to work, and she's been having a BLAST playing with my hair and putting it into new hairstyles. Like, I shit you not, we had friends over last week having some drinks (because Daniel was at his dad's for the week of Thanksgiving, so we could cut loose with no worries), and she decided she was going to french braid my hair into pigtails.

YES. MAKE UP AND PIGTAILS AND CROCHETING. HER DEVIL MAGIC IS TURNING ME INTO A GIRL. And my mother has only been trying to do that since I was a wee small thing, and I never had any of it, so she's delighted. It's funny to watch, it really is.

But crocheting does give me an inexpensive hobby, in leiu of having internet, and something I can at home, at work, anytime I have free time and nothing to do. And it's productive! So I'm doing a blanket for Daniel, then I'm going to do a baby blanket for my lawyer friend who is pregnant. Fun times.

Ahhh, life. So what's up with ya'll?

PS - I know the captcha thing is irritating as all hell, but the new Blogger is seeming to have an issue, according to various other bloggers I love, with spam comments on overload, so the word verification stays.  Sorry kids.  I know it sucks, but I would prefer to not be swarmed with crap spam.  I still love you. <3 br="br">

Excuse Me, Idiots

Dear parts stores and salvage yards in northern Missouri:

Open. Your. Fucking. Ears.

When I call your store/location/yard/whatthefuckever, I'm calling for a reason.  Not just to chitchat and say hi, how's your mom?  No.  I'm calling because something is wrong with my car, I'm broke, and I need to find a part for cheap that will last me at least until I can get a few more paychecks and buy a brand new replacement part.  Simple and easy to understand, right?

Apparently not.

In the past month, I have gone through *three* starters in my Civic.  The first one was an improper fit, because the store I called did not, as I stated above, open their god damned ears.

When I say, "I need a starter for a 98 Honda Civic DX, 2 door, manual transmission," that does not mean "A 97 or a 99 starter would be close enough, they might work," NOR does that mean "The starter out of a 98 Civic with an automatic transmission should do the trick."

No.  They are not the right size, they will not fit in my car.

Now, the first time this mistake happened, I was willing to overlook it.  Mistakes do happen from time to time, and I'm usually not one to flip my shit at the first 'oops' incident.

But when it's happening several times, repeatedly, and costing me a lot of money, now I'm starting to lose my fucking cool.

The amount I have spend on starters for my car this month, because a parts department can't seem to get employees that at least know how to comprehend the difference between 'automatic' and 'manual' transmission, would be enough to buy a brand NEW starter, from a respectable store like AutoZone or O'Reilly's (If you use somebody else or have personal beefs with either of these places, keep it to yourselves, I really don't give a flying fuck right now), and I'd be done with all the problems.

But no.  My car is still parked on the curb in front of my house, collecting a lovely coat of pollen and bird shit, and I'm reduced to walking (which, believe me, is just FUCKING DELIGHTFUL) or hitching a ride and inconveniencing other people, which I positively despise.

So yeah.  Next time I call your store, at least have the common courtesy to pull your heads out of your collective asses and pay the fuck attention to what a PAYING CUSTOMER is asking for.


Sincerely,

The pissed off pregnant lady

Epic Rap Battle: Steve Jobs vs. Bill Gates

Memorial Day

I wish I had appropriate words for today. But I don't. Sometimes I manage to craft words in an almost appropriate manner, but today is not one of those days. In lieu of that, though, I know someone who did. Master of Birds* put it quite well when he typed this up last night. Go and give it a read. Happy Memorial Day. And never forget exactly what it cost us to enjoy this day. *Warning - Parts of this site are NSFW, but this particular page is not. Consider yourself warned.

I Lol'd

QOTD - Why I Own

Tam hits another one out of the park in that special way that only she can:

That's why I own guns in the first place: To make sure nobody, from the mugger on the corner to the King of England to some washed-up political has-been from the Keystone State can come force me to do things against my will without me at least having a chance to shoot back.

I honestly can't think of a better way to describe exactly why those of us who support the Second Amendment choose to own, shoot, and carry guns. That woman has a way with words that none of us can compete with.

TSA

Because I hate them as much as the next person. Let's see if this fits.


Created by: OnlineCriminalJusticeDegree.com

QotD - Shotties

"If you're not down with shotguns, you're not down with jesus."

- PDB in the #GBC

Morning giggles. <3

Global Warming, My Ass!

You know what's fucked up?

When it's 57 degrees in Boston, MA, but only 40 degrees here in Houston.

Fuck my LIFE, but I hate the cold. I think I spent the entire day bitching, at the top of my lungs, of course, about it.

I'm too thin skinned for this cold shit. Oh well, at least it doesn't snow in Houston. Most of the time, anyway. And if it does, it's not enough to bother me: the Death Star doesn't act stupid on minor amounts.

Giving Thanks

This year, I'm thankful for mine and my son's continued good health. It's so easy for something like that to be taken away without a moment's notice. My little man is a pistol, to be sure, but that is proof enough of his continuing to terrorize me for many years.

I'm thankful for my family being there when I needed them most, emotionally and financially. Without them, I'd probably be struggling in a homeless shelter in Missouri. They're the reason I'm back in Texas with loving family surrounding me, helping me get my feet back under me.

I'm thankful for the job I just got. It's a part time gig, but even for that, it pays decent and will help immensely.

I'm thankful that the Death Star is (somehow) still running. Don't ask me how, several mechanics have been amazed it hasn't gone out in a fiery blaze of glory. They're *especially* amazed that it drove 1200 miles in approximately 48 hours with nary a hiccup. The Death Star, man. Damn thing is like the Energizer Bunny from Hell.

I'm thankful for my son. Without him, I probably really wouldn't have a whole lot of reasons to give a fuck. About anything, really.

And I'm thankful for you guys, my friends that I can't see or hear, but I know are there to talk to me when I'm down or laugh with me when I'm not. Thanks, guys.

Happy Thanksgiving. Now, go have yourself a turkey coma!

AKs, ARs, and Mosins: the Differences

Stumbled across this little gem on the internet, and while I know that I'm not educated enough in long-arms to truly understand the humor, I've heard enough from my crew in the GBC to get a giggle out of it anyway. And now I pass it on to you fine folks for a lol.

The difference between an AK47, an AR-15, and a Mosin Nagant.

Is it bad...

... That the only time my two year old will say "please" is when we have candy of some sort? He's particularly susceptible to the lure of Skittles.

And of course, he'll say please for one piece, and then another. Sometimes if you're lucky he'll feel nice enough to say please for a third Skittle. But after that, he's like "Fuck saying please, just gimme the god damned candy!"

Oh, the epic temper tantrums that ensue...

If It's Not One Thing It's Another

In which I scream and rage at the heavens as uselessly as possible, because the world is conspiring against me.

Me and mine live in a house with a roommate, the lady that rents the place. She's lived here for almost fifteen years, it's her place.

She just got a job. I just got a job. Both of us have part time jobs. My other half hasn't worked in three weeks, and there's no foreseeable work in his future.

My mother, out of the kindness of her heart, has been supplying me with gas money for my truck, and cigarettes for me the the Other Half. And occasionally a little bit of play money. Occasionally. Because until now, Other Half has had at least a little bit of money to throw for rent.

I woke up this morning with a text message from Biker Roomie saying that, not only do I need to give her some tampons because she's out, but I also need to talk to my mom about money for the water bill. Cuz she ain't got any.

I have a big fucking problem with this.

I provide transportation (because I have the only working vehicle), at no cost to Biker Roomie - she hasn't given me a dime in gas money for all the running I've taken her to do. I've nearly run out of gas on more than one occasion because I've taken her to run errands, then I haven't had gas to do what I need to do.

I also provide food - I'm on food stamps because I have pretty much zero income and a child. The entire house eats and gets around because of me.

Also, thanks to the kindness of my mother's heart, me and mine always have cigarettes. Biker Roomie usually does not, and I end up providing cigarettes for her, too.

And now she expects me to call my mom and say "Hey, can I have a wad of cash for the water bill?" In addition to giving her tampons when I'm not going to be able to afford a new box of them when I need them before too awful much longer.

I have a big problem with this. And now I'm fucking pissed.

Great way to start the day.

Teh Cute, It BURNZ!

Wee Idjit is totally in love with the movie Happy Feet now. And every time there was a penguin dance scene, he was running in circles and jumping and squealing and just having a blast.

Totally makes the bad day I've been having a little less god-awful.

I'm a Genius

So, I haven't had a job since early in May, when Big Company On Campus laid me (and everybody else) off for the summer.

Yeah, I found one yesterday. Applied and got hired on the spot at a hospitality staffing place. I need to get a cheap tux for banquet work, but I'm so not going to argue with $14 an hour to wear a penguin suit.

(I was originally told $10, but I was corrected today. Holy shit!)

Well, last night, Boss Lady called Biker Roomie at about 8:30 PM for a certificate number and said "And tell your roomie she's working tomorrow."

Uhm. Problem, boss? I just got back to the house after coaxing my mother into giving me money to buy the clothes and shoes and such needed for work. All the stores I need to visit are closed, and I wasn't going to drive to Pasadena to go to Walmart.

So, I was a bit late today, because the closest store that sells shoes didn't open til 9. We were supposed to be there at 9.

Yeahhhhh.....

And then, I got paid $9 an hour to work a concession stand. And did I mention how much that sucked? Cuz it sucked. Horribly.

Okay, I have not worked for MONTHS. And I also haven't had an excuse to spend almost nine hours on my feet. OR worn actual shoes, as opposed to flip flops or open-toed wedge heels.

My feet hurt. My calves hurt. My knees, thighs, and hips hurt.

And I am such a whiny little puss when it comes to pain that until it stops hurting, I won't stop making noise about it.

Zero pain tolerance, people.

Lolwut

Lolwut?

Silly black people....

*readies herself for oncoming cries of RACIST!!*

Gone

Sunday night, I got word from Missouri that my cat had died. To say I was upset over the news is a massive understatement.

Ping was 13 years old. I got him when I was 10 years old. He was six weeks old and itty bitty. Bright yellow, too. Not the smooth chocolate coloring he sported for the past few years.

And unlike most of the animals that had existed in my home until that point, this one was mine. He inherited his mother's looks, a dark-colored Himalayan named Ling, but his stray tom father's shorter hair, so I just named him Ping. It ended up suiting him, as he bounced off the walls like a ping-pong ball as a kitten and young cat. I took to calling him Ping-Pong or Ping.

He was an affectionate cat. But he wasn't a pushy-lovey cat. He'd walk up and nudge your hand and then just lay down next to you and wait to be noticed, content just to be close to you until you saw him and scratched behind his ears.

My dad made the decision to have him declawed at the same time we got him fixed: early on. So while lacking sharp pointies with which to gouge at an annoyance, he still packed a hell of a punch. Literally. On more than one occasion in the past couple of years when Daniel would get a hold of his tail, he'd turn around and plant a firm slap upside his head to get his attention, and in that moment of infant confusion, Ping would haul ass.

As he got older, he became more affectionate. He would spend hours parked on the arm of the couch next to me as I surfed the internet or read or watched a movie, or across the back of my giant black chair.

This cat went through a lot with me. When I first moved out of my dad's house and in with my first boyfriend, he moved with me nine times in a year and a half. Nine times. For about eight months there was another kitten I called Squeaker, do to her very high pitched squeak of a voice, that he tolerated well enough, sometimes even allowing her to curl up close and snuggle against him for warmth.

When I was 19, I made the decision to move to Missouri, and my dad had joked at the time "I'll ship you along too, if it will get rid of that damn cat of yours." Dad wasn't fond of Ping because he went after Dad's many birds. Didn't have claws, but he'd slap a bird stupid, hard enough to stun and sink his teeth in. Never say that he was hindered by not having any front claws.

Ping went to Missouri, all right, same as I did: cramped and uncomfortable for twelve hours in the back of a 2-door Chevy Cobalt. I'm not a tiny girl, and while I didn't have a whole lot of things to move, it still filled what little cargo space was available. Ping's cat carrier was crammed half in the back window of the car, the other half resting on top of a giant box of small odds and ends on the back seat next to me. He cried the whole way there; my roommates were not pleased about that.



Once we made it and got settled in, he became part of the household: and we had a household. A bunch of young adults, pretty much striking out on their own in a college town, banded together as peers, and a gay cat. Oh yeah. The shenanigans that ensued. He made himself very popular amongst my roomies, with his stunning personality and vocal opinions. Damn near every one that came into contact with him fell instantly in love with him. Redhead used to sing his praises often, stating that he was everything people liked to have in a pet cat: affectionate, not reclusive, liked to sit in windows and be visible, inquisitive, and vocal about his wants, needs, and desires.

Of course, once I moved out of the big house with numerous roommates and in with the Redhead, I really did learn what hardship was. I spent a summer basically squatting in a house with no power and no gas, no money for food, and Ping was left to scavenge. I got a job, Redhead went back to work after being laid off in the summer, and we both relocated to stay with a friend so we'd have power and a way to survive until we had enough money saved up for a new place to live. Our friend was very anti-cat, and Ping had to stay behind in the dead house. I visited often and brought him food once I started getting paychecks, and he cried whenever he heard me walking up and cried as I walked away. It was enough to break my heart.

Ping survived my pregnancy, when I was an unholy demon to any who came near me. The entire nine months of hell, he slept curled up on my pillow around my ears. I was grateful for the extra warmth; it was a winter pregnancy. Thaaaat sucked.



I spent a lot of time laying around the apartment that winter, absorbed in loud music and those strange thoughts that highly hormonal women think. And Ping would lay nearby, just purring contentedly while I stroked a hand up and down his back. On more than one occasion, especially when I started approaching ginormous sizes, he would lean over and sniff at my stomach, twitching his long, white whiskers whenever my gut twitched at him.

When Daniel was born, the apartment was suddenly full of ten tons of baby stuff and a screaming wiggly pink thing and OH MY GOD WHAT IS GOING ON! It rolled right off his back. The first couple weeks Daniel was home, he slept in the bed with me. Ping stood watch at the foot of the bed, with his very regal pose. Redhead and I usually ended up with almost opposite hours, but he said that whenever he stuck his head in while I slept, Ping continued to sit.

That cat was a very big part of my life. He was there through everything I went through, all the ups and all the downs. Pretty much the only real constant thing in my life since I was 15. I called him my first-born fur ball for a reason.

Safe journey, big guy. Momma misses you.