Swimming Pool.

I am about 40% happier in life right now. Why? Well because I don’t JUST serve coffee to douchebags anymore. Nope. I can proudly arch my thumb back towards my chest and say, “I teach little kids how to read.” It’s something worthwhile, fun, and makes me NOT want to jab a pencil through my eyeballs.

I now spend 20 hours a week as a tutor in the Americorps/Spark Literacy program through the Boys & Girls Clubs. Could any of you imagine me enjoying spending time with 7 & 8 year-olds? No. Neither could I….trust me. But after only a few meetings, the kids are excited to see me and eager to put forth their best effort during our half hour sessions. (Though probably just because I gave them fruit snacks and stickers.) It pays meagerly since it is technically a volunteer job with a “living stipend,” so I have to remain at my coffee shop job 2-3 times a week, but things have improved nonetheless.

Working with a largely Spanish-speaking underpriveliged public school population versus the uppity ignoramuses of the North Shore seems to balance my rage and I am now considerably more relaxed at the cafe (though Cup of Angst lives on!). Even better, the kids are adorable, and they make me laugh and smile so much that the inner core of my being is beginning to soften just a little bit. I mean, when you listen to a 2nd grader earnestly guess “swimming pool” while trying to read the word “easy” and interpret the word “lazy” to be “reindeer,” you can’t help but love them just a little bit…..especially when this little girl has a pet named Chopper the Wonder Dog. And when my 3rd grader who I’m certain is going to grow up to look just like Lucien from Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain does a ninja kick in the air and screams “YES!” every time he sees me, well…..that feels good.

But now that I dress like a real-adult human, have a real-adult job (sort of), and write lesson plans like a real-adult teacher, I really want a real-adult car instead of this.

But oh well. Whatever. Here’s our kitty being all, “Oh, when I’m NOT burying myself in Forth’s scrotum or sleeping in his underwear, I’m being a fatty with my chew toy.”

And then abstractly saying “OMG WTF.”:

**Back.

Hello Kitty.

On August 9th, Forth and I brought home a new addition to the family: a happy, bouncing, bundle…..of fur. A gift of sorts from Viana_17 courtesy of her farm-dwelling friend, Viana got attached to the cat and offered to help pay for some of its necessities if Forth and I would take him. Since we’d been jonesing for a cat for some time and Viana will easily be able to visit the kitty when she comes to visit from UW-Madison….we accepted.

So meet Atticus Mandarb:

First name courtesy of myself and our literary tendencies, middle name courtesy of Viana and the Wheel of Time book series. Anyway, while he’s cute and all, I would absolutely suggest owning a baby animal of some kind before getting all retarded over babies. Because let me tell you–this thing is close enough to a real newborn human to make me absolutely confident that Forth and I will be the last to spawn of all the weddings we’ve been to in the last four years.

Sure he’s cute and all but the first night we brought him home it was a waiting game to see if he was going to poop or pee and if he was going to do it in the correct place. We placed him in the litterbox frequently to make sure he knew where to do his biz. Of course after that as we were trying to go to sleep I rocked him and scratched his belly until I thought he was out cold but of course he woke up and felt the need to yowl or jump around on the bed or paw at our faces each hour on the hour from 11 p.m. till 8 in the morning. Forth and I took turns placing him in the litterbox in the middle of the night, or bringing him to his food and water dishes to make sure he had the proper sustenance. Sure cleaning the litterbox isn’t quite like changing a diaper, but it’s as close as I’d like to come for now.

This all goes without mentioning the disciplinary actions that need to be taken with what went from a shy, timid kitty to a jumping, scratching, obnoxiously hyper juvenile cat. I prefer lifting him by the scruff and yelling when we discover he’s been messing with the candles on the windowsill, peeing in the giant potted palm, clawing at the doorjambs, scratching up the bedspread, knocking over glasses of water, chewing up unattended pieces of paper, and et cetera. However, Forth will merely lift him by the scruff and explain calmly to the kitty that he has done something wrong. It’s very obvious when you take a look at our two personalities, but those sort of mixed signals would seriously mess a real child up.

At least the thing sleeps for 16 hours of the day, we can leave Atticus alone with a giant bowl of food and water for a weekend (plus RocLobster enjoys catsitting), and my vagina is still in tact, so I’d say that a baby kitty >  newborn–at least for the next ten years or so.

**Back.