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IMPORTANT MESSAGE: The following blog entries are for Entertainment Purposes Only. Please do not attempt to personalise them, take them seriously, or view them without an open mind. This is MY journal ... you are welcome to choose whether or not to read it. Please be aware that I can and will make blatant use of exaggeration for emphasis. I also reserve the right to tell absolutely outrageous lies if I feel it helps the story. All original material is the intellectual (copyrighted) property of the writer. Last, but by no means least, please fail to comment unless what you have to say is smart, witty, or sexually stimulating. Void where inhibited.
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Jun. 10th, 2006 @ 11:54 am My REAL blog!!
Come see me . . .

www.DanjerusKurves.com
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 31st, 2005 @ 06:12 pm Moving On
Current Mood: excited
I always tell people "Don't *talk* about moving on. Just.Move.On. I have followed my own advice for a change and I have indeed MOVED! Well, my blog anyway. I am now the proud owner of my own website. I have copied over my LJ posts and archives, posted some of my poetry, and moved my photo gallery to the new site. The site is Officially Up And Running and that is where I shall be posting henceforth. LiveJournal has been very good to me and I will always appreciate them for popping my blog cherry and patiently nurturing along my HTML growing pains. My huge and ongoing thanks to Pete (he's incredible!) for the tremendous amount of work that he has been doing on my new website. Those of you who have me bookmarked and/or linked, please *update* my URL. Everybody will now have the option to comment without having to create an LJ membership or defeat the anti-spambot garble. Plus, you will only have to enter your ID info one time after which it will sit prettily in your cookie jar.

And now, ladies and what I will loosely refer to as "gentlemen", with no further ado, I present to you the New, the Wonderful, the Sexy:

www.DanjerusKurves.com

¤¤¤
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 25th, 2005 @ 10:59 am Dusting the Dragon
Current Mood: naughty
For the past week or so I have been "feathering my nest", as we Cancerians are apt to do from time to time. I have moved around small pieces of furniture and rearranged my dragon collection to accommodate the new pieces. I took down some old framed photo collages and put up new ones to add a cheerful splash of colour. I placed light or bright coloured artwork on the bottom shelves of end tables to "bring forth the light". I dug through my memorabilia chest and set out a couple of gift ornaments that had been in storage. I placed the "Sex Instructor" marble plaque (given to me by a Japanese girl) in my bedroom next to the Mardi Gras hat, lava lamp, and two sets of handcuffs. Then in my living room I hung the handpainted wooden plaque that says "The more I know about men, the more I like my cats!" right below the sign that says "Just how many frogs do I have to kiss?" I even artistically arranged several strings of Mardi Gras beads in various locations. I have a lot of those beads, um, because they were given to me. As gifts. Or something. Not because I flashed for them or anything. cough ... I like beads. Pretty beads make me happy. Shiny things. Maybe I was a native of this land in a past life. I actually feel a refreshing sense of new energy in my home. Perhaps this feng shui thing really has some validity to it. Then again, perhaps I'm just a gay man in a woman's body.

Just in case this was all a bit too girlie for the guys, here are a couple of photos I took of myself this past weekend while dusting the dragons. Ooh, that could be a new euphemism for masturbation! Dusting the dragon. I did some of that too, but didn't take photos, sorry.
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My French maid uniform was at the cleaners, so I had to do my housework in a leopard-skin teddy and heels. Really, I always do my housework dressed that way. Drunk and naked would be preferred, but I'd hate to break a dragon while staggering around under the influence.

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Yes, that is a feather duster and yes I am dusting my tush just for you perverts.

***
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 22nd, 2005 @ 01:40 pm Death Penalty
Current Mood: violently happy
Dear Cockroach,

As you may have noticed, moments before I used a metal spatula to mercilessly bludgeon you into a dismembered, sticky mess, my living room is quite spacious. I suspect that your little cockroach buddies probably put you up for a bit of a fun lark, all the while telling you it would be hilariously funny. In the last few moments of your life, I am sure that hindsight told you otherwise. While you can indeed scuttle quite quickly, you do not have the speed of an infuriated petite human female who has just been brutally molested. Apparently, you also underestimated the strength with which such a panic-stricken female can overturn a loveseat in order to hunt down your vile presence. I understand that my house has something of a reputation as being a safe haven for your species. My elite crack team of stealth felines will, after all, allow you to swagger through here inviolate. Their contribution to your demise generally consists of tossing their human withering looks that clearly convey the message "Well, don't just sit there, Oh Litter Box Scooper, DO something!"

I have learned from experience that cowering on the furniture while desperately exhorting the kats to "Please, kill it!! EAT IT!!!!!" Will gain me nothing more than a look that says "You want me to put WHAT in my mouth????" Having a human male on the premises on occasion has also resulted in some rather unimpressively embarrassing results. So, yes, I have been forced to learn how to fend for myself in these situations. You see, I keep the aforementioned metal spatula on the premises for the very same reason that I keep a Glock .40 calibre -- to discourage and exterminate uninvited guests.

It's downright embarrassing that humankind persists in believing itself to be the dominant species on this planet. In reality, we fall somewhere after viruses, sharks, cockroaches, and telemarketers in terms of survival of the fittest.

So, I ask again, in light of the spaciousness of my living room, was it *really* bloody necessary to run across my foot?
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 19th, 2005 @ 10:56 am Weighed Down
Current Mood: quixotic
Memo to the fat jerk who tried to grope me at myNightclub last weekend ... and who called me a "scrawny bitch" when I asked him, quite politely actually, to cease and desist ... without my having to rip his heart out through his windpipe.

Dear Mr. Fat Jerk: My request to go unmolested did not entitle you to make a derogatory remark about the very same fake breasts that you were attempting to grab. Buddy, I know not where your problem lies. Had you, perchance, imbibed an over-the-top volume of liquid courage? Perhaps you are one of those overweight people who complain about their weight and yet do nothing about it. Perhaps you go to a gym a couple of times a week and after 2-3 reps self-righteously pronounce yourself fully exercised. Perhaps you habitually order three Big Macs (extra meat and extra cheese, *don't* hold the mayo!), a super-sized fries, fried apple pie ... and a Diet Coke. Maybe you are indeed actively working on losing weight. Fine, so lose the weight and then lose the personality disorder. Whatever your lifestyle, mine revolves around taking good care of myself. I don't like to work-out, but I do like the results. I'm not obsessive about my physique; I sometimes overeat and I (somewhat) self-medicate by drinking more than is really healthy. But when I see my weight increase I don't just sit around whining about it, I eat less and keep up with my workouts so the extra weight goes away. Which beats eating more to compensate myself for causing the problem in the first place. Part of my exercise regime is to be on the dance floor weekly, preferably unmolested. If you are happy with your overweight physique and potential health-related problems, then good for you. Just don't expect me to be attracted to your jiggling slabs of human blubber. Believe it or not, I'm also not attracted to guys with perfect pecs and 6-pack abs, I find them to be generally self-obsessed dumbbells (point in case: Tom Cruise). Nor do the overdeveloped roid boiz do it for me. My life is geared around being active, physically fit within reason, and emotionally well-balanced. Yours, apparently, is not.

I try to "do unto others" whenever possible. You'd think that would automatically nominate me for sainthood, but thus far it has not happened. Despite that I get crucified from time to time for defending myself against jerks like you. Now and then I will even make a fat person joke ... but I'm more likely to make a boob-job joke. Why? To beat you to the punch. What is it with some physically unattractive people who feel they have a free ticket to hypocritically hurl insults at people who work at staying in shape, while expecting diplomatic immunity for their own appearance? I once pointed out an attractive yet chubby (not fat) guy in a nightclub to an obese female friend. She sneered and said "I don't think so ... he's FAT!" Imagine if *I* had said that. More recently, I was with an obese male friend for his birthday when he informed a stripper that he could feel her breast implants. Truthfully, I'm not even sure she had implants, as her breasts were of perfectly natural shape and proportion.

Let me put it this way. I could have my breast implants removed tomorrow and still have a great physique and an enjoyable personality. You, however, will still be fat and unattractive with a lousy attitude.
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 16th, 2005 @ 12:37 pm I Am So Gifted
Current Mood: jubilant
I think I have some of the best friends in the entire world. Really, I do. There are moments, however, that I have to question their concern for my welfare. The following are some of the birthday gifts I received this year:

A Disney t-shirt that features a print of Tinkerbell and the words "your boyfriend thinks i'm cute!". (Wonder how many times I'll get my arse kicked while wearing this):

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Courtesy of BossMan, lunch for the entire staff was delivered to the office. So, I got to sit around eating while getting paid! (Aren't you supposed to do something *different* for your birthday?)

Fifteen lap dances at a strip club. This was not my idea! Really. (Yes, FIFTEEN. Enough said.)

Several bottles of very good wine ... because I am "not a cheap lush". (Like a fine wine, I get more expensive with age.)

A pink plaid miniskirt and pink cropped tank-top. Schoolgirl fantasy, anybody? (What was that about not dressing my age???)

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A birthday "card" drawn on a napkin at the pub. It even opens up like a real card and has another message inside. (Cheap, tacky, yet still cute!)

Dinner at a French restaurant, dinner at an Italian restaurant, dinner at a Japanese restaurant. (For that world-renowned "American cuisine"... and they make fun of British food?)

A blow-up male Real Doll with vibrating tongue and interchangeable "attachments". (OK, nobody bought me that, but it was on my wish list.)

A special mention, as always, for my gorgeous friend Zach. When his restaurant ran out of birthday cake candles (NO, it was not because they didn't have enough for me. Shut.Up.), he lit his lighter and held it for me to blow out the flame.

I also received several absolutely beautiful new dragons. One is a coloured glass figurine which lights up and changes colours. See:

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*
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*
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But, the best gift of all, always: The friendship and company of some awesome people. (You can say "awww" now.)

***
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 14th, 2005 @ 08:47 am Quatorze de Juillet
Current Mood: celebratory
Today is Bastille Day, which is the French equivalent of the American 4th of July holiday. But, more importantly, it is also my birthday. Happy Birthday to ME!!! wheeeeeeee! Yes, dear readers, it is once again time to celebrate my presence on the planet. Aren't you the lucky ones to be able to bask in my glow?!! Bastille Day commemorates the storming of the Bastille Prison, which took place on 14 July, 1789, and marked the beginning of the French Revolution. According to EvilMummy, I could not have been born on any day but one of revolution. I'm pretty sure she only said that because I was born six days late (and have still yet to be on time). Being the rebel that I am (according to some of my rather rude friends) I am going to have dinner at a French restaurant this evening. Not only that, but my dinner guests will include two incredibly adorable French children, Jan (pronounced "yun") and Laura (pronounced "Laura"), both of whom have impeccable manners. (Yes, they really are French despite that!) I might even eat cake since Marie Antoinette made the suggestion. Come on, just for one day you can all refrain from hating the French! You can go back to that tomorrow.

Before anybody rudely asks how old I am as of today, let's just say that I am celebrating the anniversary of my 35th. Carry on.
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 13th, 2005 @ 10:47 am Oopsy Daisy!
Current Mood: clumsy
I so did not leap out of bed this morning full of the joy of life ... and immediately trip over my own damn feet and land on my face causing a small cut on my cheekbone and some resulting swelling ... she types, one-handed, while holding an ice-cube to her face ...
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 8th, 2005 @ 10:50 am For Whom the Tolls Bell
Current Mood: speedy
Memorandum to Houston County Toll Road Association (HCTRA):

I am enclosing my check in payment of the above referenced tollway violation invoice.

Please be aware that although I live in Houston, I had NO idea that the entire Westpark Tollway is strictly for the exclusive use of EZ Tag drivers. While you may think that the “EZ TAG ONLY” sign at the entrance ramp would be competent warning, the exact same signs appear all over Beltway 8 to indicate that only certain LANES are for EZ Tag drivers’ use. This is extremely confusing to residents of Houston, let alone to non-resident drivers, and more so to blondes! Especially since I was using directions provided by Mapquest.com. Are you perhaps in a silent partnership with them? For the life of me I could not understand why there were no toll booths at which I could stop to pay my tolls. I'm sincerely sorry that I temporarily deprived you of that $1.25.

In closing I would also like to say that the $15 “Administrative Fee” is utterly outrageous. Whoever is getting paid $15 for the two minutes it takes to print out a form letter and stuff it in an envelope should be able to retire within six months. At that time I would appreciate being offered their job position at the same rate of $525.00 per hour.
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 7th, 2005 @ 11:28 am London's Burning
Current Mood: infuriated
I don't have any better words than the ones I have heard already with which to express my own shock and horror. Rule Britannia!!! if the fucking Nazis and all their predecessors couldn't destroy England then those bastards won't either. They don't call it GREAT Britain for nothing. Thank you to those who took the time to enquire as to the welfare of my friends and (estranged) family in England. Also, a truly heartfelt thank you to America for being one of the United Kingdom's greatest-ever allies.
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jul. 3rd, 2005 @ 03:26 pm All Choked Up
Current Mood: jittery
Well, I for one started out my 4th of July holiday weekend with a bang. Unfortunately, of the non-sexual variety.

I had been having a really bad burning sensation in my throat for a couple of days that I was assuming must be acid reflux. Not that I've ever been diagnosed with acid reflux but the symptom made sense to my hypochondriac-style self-diagnosis. I danced at myNightclub from Friday night into the wee hours of Saturday morning and didn't get to bed until around 4:00 a.m. I was subsequently delighted to be woken up around 9:00 a.m. by the dulcet tones of two young boys playing in the swimming pool. Accompanied and somewhat overridden by the frantic yapping and squealing of a small black poodle. After about 30 minutes of not being able to get back to sleep I dressed and went out to the pool. I politely informed the non-tenant woman accompanying said children and canine that I would really like to accomplish more than three hours of sleep. She politely informed me that the dog was merely reacting with excitement to the boys rough-play. I politely pointed out the very large sign two feet away from her that says in six-inch high letters NO PETS PERMITTED. "Oh," she said, "I thought that meant they just weren't allowed in the water!" She then ordered the kids out of the pool for the two minutes that it would take her to return the dog to the tenant with whom she was staying. I went back to bed and after a mere 90 mins or so I was able to get back to a throat-pain-interrupted sleep.

I awoke some two hours or so later feeling as though a firework had gone off in my throat. I staggered out of bed and painfully swallowed some antacids. I went back to bed and dozed fitfully due to the continued burning in my throat. I finally awoke completely with my palms red and itching badly, and my throat burning and closing up. When I passed by the bathroom mirror I was astonished to see huge red blotchy marks on both sides of my neck. My neck was also *visibly* swollen. Breathing was already becoming a bit of an issue and the look of my neck didn't help my attempt at staying calm.

At the beginning of this year my health insurance plan changed from a half-arsed PPO to a fully-arsed HMO with high deductibles and low coverage. I had not had any reason to make note of which hospital emergency room I was permitted to use. Lesson learned: look these things up whether or not you need to know right then. Otherwise you might find yourself on a Saturday frantically calling your insurance provider to find out where you are supposed to go for emergency treatment only to find out that the insurance company is closed on the weekends. Your doctor's office is also closed. I went to the insurance company's website and after 2,038 clicks I found the names of three "urgent care clinics". Such clinics have a copay of approximately half that of an ER but can treat minor emergencies (is that an oxymoron?). I called each clinic in turn only to be informed that each "clinic" was, in fact, a doctor's office and as such was closed for the weekend. Back I went through the entire clicking process to find a nearby hospital. My throat, in the meantime, continued to squeeze itself tighter. After five phone calls I reached a nearby ER and confirmed that they did, in fact, take my insurance. I shot out of the house, barely remembering to throw on clothing, and started driving as patiently as I could to the hospital. When I was within two blocks of the hospital I ran into a traffic jam caused by a railroad crossing barrier blocking the street. And no train in sight. Apparently, the existing traffic had been sitting there for a while because the driver of a Mercedes got out of his car and manually lifted the barrier so everybody else could merge from three lanes into one and drive through. Miracles *do* happen.

I cannot say enough good things about the ER staff at the Twelve Oaks Hospital here in Houston. The lady I spoke with on the phone had asked for my name. She had all of my registration paperwork ready for me to sign as soon as I staggered in, red in the face and panting. The wait was minimal, the nurse was gentle and sympathetic. The doctor was funny. No, I assured him, I had not been engaging in auto-erotic asphyxiation. Nor had I been making out with a teenager so, no, those were not hickeys on my neck. As far as I was aware, no, I had not caused anybody to attempt to choke the living daylights out of me.

It turned out that I was having a massive allergic reaction to something. I still cannot think of anything or anyone that could have caused such an acute reaction. Not that there is anything cute about looking like I've had somebody sucking on my neck. It's also possible I may have (additionally) been bitten by some species of insect while engaging in friendly banter at the pool.

Going into debt by $200 wasn't all bad though. I now own a dahling little pale green plastic wrist-strap. It even has my name and age on it in case I forget either. Although, when I asked the nurse if it entitled me to alcoholic beverages like the paper straps they put on our wrists at myNightclub, she said no. In addition to the lesser but continued throat pain, either (or both) the steroids and antihistamines they gave me are doing a bang-up job of giving me the jitters.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start thinking about how I want to celebrate our independence from the British Tyrants. Perhaps a stroll around the pool?
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jun. 30th, 2005 @ 04:03 pm Stuck in the Middle
Current Mood: confused
I think I am entering my 236th mid-life crisis. This seems to have been occurring approximately every 3 months for the past 10 years. Or just whenever I'm not PMSing. I am yet again going through a "What *do* I want to be when I grow up?" phase. Yet.Again. Aren't I supposed to already be a grown-up? I don't look like people my age, I don't act like people my age, and I sure as hell don't feel my age. Yet, again, I can't decide where I want to spend the rest of my life. Or where I want to live in general. Or whether I want to be single or in a relationship. Admittedly, while being alone can sometimes be excruciatingly lonely ... at other times the solitude can be perfectly exquisite. There are days when I am so grateful that I live alone ... and days when I want to just curl up and weep from loneliness. But then I realise that "weep" is a ridiculously lame word and I giggle and feel much better. When men go through their mid-life crisis they often run out and buy a sports car, start dressing like a guy half their age, and find 20somethings to date. I can't afford don't want a sports car and I'm already doing the other two, so where is MY solution? Should I start dressing frumpy and dating old farts? I suppose I could always try auctioning myself off to the highest bidder, but the only men who could afford me (according to HumanForSale) would be rich yet psychotic control freaks. (I know this from having dated more than one wealthy male.) However, in the name of scientific research, here's what I am worth:

I am worth $2,403,680 on HumanForSale.com
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jun. 19th, 2005 @ 02:08 pm Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear!
I was recently honoured to be invited by a friend to play hostess at a Poker Party Extravaganza. Since I'm all about protecting the privacy of my wonderful friends, I'll refer to him simply as "Sam". He knows who he is. The party was being held at Sam's house and the exclusive invitees consisted of ten guys and me, the token female, making the term "full house" quite appropriate. Sam almost but not quite managed to refrain from referring to my role as being "eye candy". He thought I would add some interesting spice to the evening and an additional distraction for the poker boys. When I say "additional" ... well, let me unfold the story. Let the games begin!

Sam has a beautiful house with Mexican salmon-coloured tile floors throughout, almost as many windows as a greenhouse, and a television in every room. In the centre of the house there is a small, enclosed atrium with a fountain and landscaping. It's very pretty and peaceful. The back yard, which is also beautifully landscaped has a pool and the requisite Texas big-arse-BBQ.

This was the kind of party that demonstrates Southern Hospitality at its finest. Pounds and pounds of barbecued beef, chicken, and corn on the cob were barbecued into tender submission. Several of those pounds accidentally found their way into my stomach. Crusty French bread dripped butter, chilled white wine kept making its way into my glass. (Which had *nothing* to do with the fact that I was in charge of serving drinks.) The beer flowed freely along with the whiskey. Cigars were flourished and smoked down to stubs. The guys were initially shy about asking me to bring them drinks but once the poker tournament was underway they began to appreciate not having to get their own beverages. It was no mean feat to memorise eight new names (eight because I already knew two of the players) AND to remember which beverage each of them was drinking. Especially while daintily sipping my way through a bottle and a half of wine. One thing it took me far too long to figure out was that even though beer bottles have twist-off caps, when you are opening multitudes of bottles, you might want to go ahead and use a bottle-opener anyway. The cuts, blisters, and bruising on my right index finger will attest.

Early in the tournament, Sam wasn't faring too well and so he turned to me and asked me for a good luck charm. So I sold him my pink lace thong panties for $50. I'm sweet like that. Without my even having to suggest it, Sam immediately placed my, well his at that point, panties on his head. In the following photo you can see Sam (after the tragic run-in with Photo Shop in which he lost all of his facial features) sporting his gang colour panty-bandanna.
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After a couple more of my six-glug whiskey drinks, he took the panties off his head. As he sauntered casually back from the bathroom, he was apparently unaware that we could see the pink lace peeking out over the waistband of his shorts.
Image hosted by Photobucket.com


Unfortunately, those were the only party photos safe enough to post here due to the video images in the background.**

For a while I trotted around in high heeled sandals but once I felt the guys were sufficiently engrossed in their tournament, I kicked off my sandals and happily padded around barefoot. I managed to sneak in a couple of breaks over the course of the eight hours that I hostessed. The first one was after dark and I slipped out to the pool and sat on the edge with my hot and tired feet dangling and splashing gently in the water while I leaned back and turned my face upwards toward the moonlight. I also took a short break in the atrium which was just lovely.

**The "additional" distraction I referenced earlier was in regard to the multiple televisions. All but one of which was showing porn. I am proud to announce that I have now finally, personally witnessed Midget Porn. I'm sure if my estranged mother only knew her eyes would fill with tears of pride. I have seen porn before but not to any great extent. I don't own any, I don't subscribe to any internet porn, and the only porn I generally look at are the freebie 30-second movie clips. I'm going to assume this would explain why I spent more time gawking at the porn videos than did most of the guys. Having admitted which, allow me to make one or more observations regarding porn. The midget I saw was a white female, her partner was a black male. The male actor appeared to have a tree stump growing out of his groin which the midget was enthusiastically attempting to fill with air. What caught my attention beyond that was that the male actor was wearing eyeglasses. Which seemed just plain bizarre, even more so than the midget angle. By the way, yes, she was able to accommodate the tree stump. I'm guessing she probably had her internal organs removed in order to be able to do so. In another of the videos the male actor was wearing baggy socks and tennis shoes. Am I the only one who notices these things? At one point I found myself forced to ask the guys in general "Doesn't that hurt your balls when they are swinging and slapping like that?" Shortly before the tournament got underway, some of the guys filed into Sam's bedroom to raid the humidor. They were gone for several minutes and when I gave them an enquiring glance as they filed back out they all got the most peculiarly sheepish look on their faces. When I asked them what they had been up to they giggled like schoolboys and confessed to having been watching ... the Disney Channel on the one non-porn-showing television. The Disney Channel I tell you!!! I suppose I may as well go ahead and confess that towards the very end of a somewhat exhausting evening (which for the hostess started at 4:00 p.m.) I, too, found my way into the bedroom and watched a muted Leslie Nielsen movie while bouncing on the corner of the bed and giggling to myself. I was blissfully unaware that the guys were paying any attention to me until somebody mentioned something about my cuteness later. Just one more distraction, free of charge. Well maybe not entirely "free" as the guys generously tipped me at the end of the evening!

In closing, I would like to state that "Sam" is my most Favourite Friend Ever ... or until somebody else gives me a gift that is anywhere near as cool as the one he gave me last night. Dearest readers, I present to you the latest addition to the Kurves Dragon Collection:
Image hosted by Photobucket.com
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High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jun. 13th, 2005 @ 01:36 pm Danjerusly Fun
Current Mood: burning through cash
As I may have mentioned recently, I am at present graciously hosting a housepest (“Surly”) from the remote wildlands of Canada. He doesn’t really live up to his Surly sobriquet as in person he’s really quite sweet. For those of you who are not aware, I live in Houston, Texas. No, I am not *from* here, I live here.

Now, I don’t want to make my guest sound like a small town hick who resides in a village so remote from civilisation that they only recently heard that WW2 had ended ... however, the phrase “We don’t have that [indoor plumbing/electricity/summer clothes] in Yellowknife” has become one of the most common phrases to enter the English language. To the extent that some Houstonians are now preempting the aforesaid comment with “Betcha don’t have that [trees/dishwasher/BBQ] in Yellowknife!” As I was driving back to my house from the airport on the six-lane freeway (they don’t have those in Yellowknife) two (yes, two) police squad cars passed me on the left. Surly immediately assumed that there was some kind of high-speed chase taking place. Two.Police.Cars. Together. One right behind the other. Since then, Surly has discovered that human beings do not, in fact, have to wear multiple layers of clothing at all times, including when showering. Cars do not have to be plugged into a heater overnight to prevent the engine from freezing. Trees can have green leaves. He has also discovered that while you might *feel* as though your flesh is being melted over a barbecue pit, you can actually walk around in 100-F (that's "f" as in "effing hot") heat and survive. As long as you are not outside for more than 30 seconds at a stretch. Texas is not, in fact, the 5th circle of Hell. It just feels like it is. The water in the swimming pool does, in fact, feel like bathwater at 2:30 a.m. Which is perfect for skinnydipping. Especially if all the single men in your building are gay. Surly now knows that big city gymnasiums have more than one exercise machine. That they have, in fact, many, many machines for every body part. Plus racks of free weights that weigh more than 40 pounds. Surly has also discovered that his hostess wasn't kidding about being able to burp really loudly. Surly has not discovered his hostess's secret porn collection. Yet. Surly does not appear to have been trying on his hostess's underwear. Yet. Surly is in agreement that his gracious hostess is, indeed, "as advertised" in every way.

In terms of entertainment, Surly has thus far been taken out for several dinners and has made new friends at the Pub. He got to hang out and study eye candy at my nightclub with my buddy Kevin (another Canadian). He bought himself a very nice leather jacket at Wilsons Leather in the Galleria. Because, you know, in Yellowknife they need clothing that will keep them warm. Weird, huh? I had accidentally done the Typical Girl Thing the day before and purchased a pair of dahling lavender strappy sandals. Which went with precisely nothing in my wardrobe. So, I took a moment in the Galleria to shop for a top that would match the sandals. A $35 top to go with a pair of $15 sandals. The moment instantly stretched into several moments ... or 30 minutes in the Canadian metric system ... which left Surly pacing around wondering where in the hell I had gotten to.

We spent Saturday afternoon in Galveston with my buddy Frank. Who is yet another Canadian; I seem to attract them like flies since Sallison is also one of Them. (Galveston for you non-Texans is an island in the Gulf of Mexico). While in Galveston we "toured" the Strand which is a street lined with some incredibly tacky tourist trap gift shops ... in one of which Surly purchased a lovely ceramic chicken candle holder for his Mum. Yes, a chicken. I'll stop there. Oh, and we stopped and had a drink at a G.A.Y. bar. I could have sworn there were more bars on the Strand but we couldn't find one, so as we were walking back to the car we stopped in at the one lone bar on 23rd Street. Utterly oblivious to the pretty rainbow flag in the window, we stormed the bar to the obvious confusion of the bartender as we plunked our hot and sweaty arses onto barstools. OK, I failed to notice the rainbow flag but I *did* instantly notice the posters of beefcake underwear models ... and the one wall covered in photos of drag queens. And the "lady" by the men's room who had quite an array of impressive sex toys displayed for sale on a table. My two Canadians flatly refused to be sporting enough to pose in the bar for photographs. They wouldn't even pose outside under the pretty flag. I did, however, manage to snap a shot of the boys together on the Strand. Having handed Surly my handbag so I could take the shot. He looks quite adorable clutching the handbag to his torso in the resulting photo. You know what else they don't have in Yellowknife? a giant outdoor chess set. Talk about an uncivilised place to live! After driving away from the fascinating Strand we drove up and down the Seawall searching for some hot bodies on the beach to gawk at. Failing which, we looked for a restaurant and then spent 15 minutes searching for a parking space. We finally parked illegally on the Seawall along with 10,000 other cars and then trudged our weary tourist-wannabe bodies into Landry's Seafood Restaurant. We then commenced to eat at least one of everything on the menu. At least I did. We ended our day by guzzling yet more adult beverages at the pub. Strangely, when I weighed myself the next day I had gained three pounds overnight.

Prior to planning the Surly visit I had made plans with Frank to see the Gypsy Kings. Before the show we had dinner at the Lancaster Bistro, which is located inside the Lancaster Hotel in downtown Houston. Lovely place. The night before I had binged on masses of seafood appetizers, a salad, a huge chunk of Chilean Sea Bass smothered in lump crab and sauce, a double chocolate mousse cake, a gallon of chardonnay, and an espresso. Because of packing on those three pounds overnight, I decided not to have seafood again and instead went for the goat cheese salad. Followed by a slab of filet mignon with mashed potatoes ... and an espresso/chocolate mousse for dessert. What??? I only ate half of it!! I really don't have a "dessert tooth". I can count on one hand the number of times in a year that I eat dessert. But there are times when I have to behave like a girl and order dessert. I only do it to be polite. Since we had already started on a bottle of chardonnay before deciding to order steak, we also ordered a bottle of red wine just to be polite. And triple espressos to keep us awake during the show. It turned out that the show would have kept us awake anyway. The Gypsy Kings were very energetic and we were constantly jumping up from our seats and bopping around. Frank compared the jumping up and down to being in church. On the way home we decided to stop at a cigar and martini bar. Purely so we could pick up a nice fresh cigar for Surly. Or "the youngun" as Frank refers to him. The two lemon drop martinis I had were purely to pass the time while Frank cigar-shopped.

Coming up this week in the Kurves Entertainment Schedule are the following events: Several hardcore workouts at the gym to get rid of the monstrous three pound weight gain. Tomorrow, Frank is taking Surly to lunch at Hooters and then possibly to a strip club afterwards. Which I think is seriously inappropriate behaviour, since I'll be stuck at work and won't be able to go with them. Hell, I get the Lancaster Bistro and the Gypsy Kings and HE gets to go to a strip club? No Fair!! Wednesday is Frank's birthday so we will be taking him to Cafe Toulouse (again, if you are in Houston, you really should check it out). No doubt there will be more male bonding at the pub while the Little Woman demurely sits by in her new Amish underwear. Next weekend I'd like to take Surly to see my favourite Texas roadhouse blues band, Matt Leddy and the Meatcutters. There will be at least one more visit to my nightclub so Surly can again attest to my being the best (female) dancer in the place and, of course, more studying of eye candy with Kevin. There will probably be at least one trip to the cinema thrown in to satiate the Surly One's film fetish. We may even check out the Lord of the Rings museum exhibit. (Betcha they don't have museums in Yellowknife!)

And so I leave you with this invitation: It's damn expensive to entertain visitors (even when they are helping out financially), can somebody send me a large wad of American dollars?
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jun. 7th, 2005 @ 12:34 pm Panty Propaganda
Current Mood: satisfied
I’d like to thank one of our charming pub regulars for inspiring today’s essay. The following paragraph is an excerpt from a lengthy email he sent to me last night:

"You have to watch out for the (on the surface) 'prim and proper' brigade at the pub. I have heard a few mentions that "someone" should have a word with you about body exposure and the lack of underwear. Now you have probably guessed that there are no men involved in this scheme!!!!!!!!! Most people who understand you like you, and so do I."

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. First off, how the hell does “someone” *know* for sure whether or not I am wearing underwear? and just how the hell is that anybody's business anyway? While I admittedly do prefer commando-style, when I actually wear panties they are quite minuscule and of a smooth microfibre that prevents ugly panty lines. Apparently, the Prim and Proper Brigade must be spending a lot of time staring at my arse in the perpetual murkiness of the pub. Please inform the Brigade that they are welcome to enquire as to my underwear status. I might even show them my pretty panties if they ask nicely ... and if I'm wearing any. If I'm not, then they can admire the impudent little racing stripe. As far as a bra? I don’t *need* one, I have implants. Elasticated and/or underwired support is both unnecessary and highly uncomfortable.

Body exposure? would that be referring to the two-inches of skin that is often-times revealed around my midsection? that area of tightly toned stomach muscles that I train 4 times per week at the gym while other flab-buckets sit around guzzling beer at the pub? Would that be the very same two inches of flesh that our lovely female bartenders display on a nightly basis between their cropped shirts and low-slung jeans? How about cleavage? is mine any more on display than that of our many gorgeous female regulars who spend more time at the pub than me? How about the fact that I wear short skirts and dresses? ... that show considerably less of my legs than I would be showing if I was wearing a perfectly acceptable pair of shorts like some other patrons. You may have noticed that you don’t see me slinking around in the super-tight jeans that look so fabulous on some of the other girls. Personally, I am quite proud of the fact that our pub has such a high volume of very attractive and sexy women. It makes me feel attractive to be surrounded by such beauty. Which is not to imply for a moment that I don’t also fully appreciate the brains and humour of these ladies.

If some people are going to get so stuck on how I look or what I'm wearing that they miss out on the more important aspects of me; such as my sense of humour or my intelligence, then, seriously, that is their problem and not mine. It would behoove the members of the Brigade to spend a little less time analysing my wardrobe and a little more time talking to me to find out what kind of person I really am. Or in the alternate, minding their own damn business.

Out of fairness to this alleged Brigade, however, I’d like to make a few suggestions. First off, I am highly offended by the sight of flabby bodies. I propose that in return for my dressing like a ... well, I was going to say “schoolteacher”, but we have one of those at the pub and she’s totally hot. So, in return for my dressing like a nun, I say that the Brigade should be signed up for the type of gym workouts that I sweat through. I’m offended by bad teeth too, so anybody who does not have a mouthful of gleaming, straight, white teeth is going to have to stay away from the bar unless and until they have become orally acceptable. Smoking? highly offensive, it’s going to have to stop. While we’re at it, let’s bring an end to all this unseemly imbibing of alcohol. Instead, perhaps we can start a sewing circle for the girls and bible study for the men. On separate sides of the bar, of course. Perhaps we girls can sew up a few Amish-type outfits for one another? Meantime, I’ll have to inform the several other girls at the pub who also have breast implants that they are now required to cross their heart with some hideously ugly but mandatory underwear.

Should my counterproposal be rejected, I would like to cordially invite anybody who doesn’t like what I wear to feel free to look elsewhere rather than staring at me. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful ... hate me because you are not.

*******************************************
Postscript: Due to the concern about my underwear or alleged lack thereof, I have taken to wearing black lace camisoles that peek out from underneath my semi-transparent tank tops. Oh, the art of subtle revenge!!!
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jun. 6th, 2005 @ 07:54 pm House Rules
Current Mood: bossy
I am about to have a house pest guest for the next three weeks. While I would like to be clear that I am a gracious hostess in this regard, there are a few guidelines to which I require my guests to adhere:

Welcome to Texas. Yes, it is bloody hot and even more bloody humid, you do not need to inform me of these facts.

I'd like to start by introducing you to these dahling little creatures that we affectionately call "fire ants". We call them that because their cute little bodies are a lovely shade of 7th-circle-of-hell-red ... and also because they are passionate creatures who like to demonstrate their love of the human species by proferring little love nips ...

The kats live here, you don't .... so if you don't like stepping in surprise piles of kat puke, then don't walk on the carpet.

Dinner will be served promptly at 7pm or 8pm or 10pm or whenever you get around to cooking/ordering/driving to the restaurant.

Please put a towel on the sofa if you plan to sit around naked.

While packages of baby wipes have been thoughtfully placed next to each toilet, please do not flush more than two at a time.

You may want to refrain from leaving anything on the floor that can be peed, pawed, or slept upon.

Likewise, you may find it to be preferable not to leave laying around anything small or light enough to be carried off by a large feline or a small female human.

The exception to that rule is cash ... please feel free to leave cash laying around while staying open-minded as to its potential disappearance.

Kindly restrict yourself to only trying on those items of my lingerie that I no longer wear ... ditto with my high-heels.

Speaking of footwear, please remove yours when you enter my house and leave them by the front door stuffed with Downey sheets so the entire house does not need to be aware of their existence.

Please do not use my entire stock of tampons to make bottle rockets.

Should you find yourself alone in my home and short of entertainment, please feel free to clean the house from top to bottom.

The plastic cylindrical things in the nightstand drawer that go BZZZZZZZZZZ are MY toys, please do not play with them in my absence.

Please virus-scan any and all porn before downloading it onto my computer ... and then share it with me.

Feel free to photograph your genitals with my digital camera, but please keep in mind that's it's been done before.

The foil-wrapped "mystery" packets in the fridge/freezer are up for grabs. The fuzzy green layer on the mystery contents is a traditional secret-recipe sauce that has been in my family for several days.

If you must answer the phone with "Kurves Kathouse", feel free, but keep in mind that it is your problem if the caller turns out to be your mother.

While I may not personally have offered you sex as part of my extended hospitality, you are required to at least invite me to join in if you are having sexual activity of any kind.

Please dispose of the remains of our beloved tree roaches by gently placing the stomped-upon corpse in the toilet.

While I don't necessarily make up the rules as I go along, I do enforce them.

Thank you, and enjoy your stay at Kasa Kurves.
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
Jun. 3rd, 2005 @ 01:08 pm Snippy Snippets
Current Mood: snippy
I'm told that my personality is much the same in real life as it is online. I sometimes wonder about that ...

DK at the Pub:

Very Cute But Very Drunk Guy to DK: "Damn, you're hot ... but damn you're mean!"
(I was being "mean" because I kept peeling his wandering hands off my body)
DK to Very Cute But Very Drunk Guy: "Why don't you just go home and jerk-off, because you're getting nowhere with me."

DK to Other Regular: "Shit, I'm drunk. Can I crash on your sofa tonight?"
Other Regular to DK: "Sure, babe ... but you know I don't have a sofa." (true, he has a pool table in his living room)

More of the sweetness that is me ... (DK online):

KelliD: That made me all warm and fuzzy inside.
DanjerusKurves: Go change your underwear ... you just peed yourself.

OhNoItsRyan: do you have anymore fantasies you want to fulfill sexually?
DanjerusKurves: Why yes, actually. I want to hear that I won the lottery while I'm having sex.

DanjerusKurves: I deny that I denied that denial...!
JohnV: i acknowledge your denial of my denial, and deny you one additional denial.

Married Man: I would love to entertain you, if you feel like taking a chance.
DanjerusKurves: Awfully nice of you to offer, but the only husbands I "entertain" are those to whom I am married.

Bassakwords: Don't come over tonight, I'm having beans for lunch.
DanjerusKurves: Ohhhh, me too!!
Bassakwords: eww you're gonna be all gassy!
DanjerusKurves: Hopefully I'll get some room on the dance floor tonight.
Bassakwords: LMAO!
************************************************

And because I have received random complaints that I haven't posted any T&A photos lately, here is a photo of my boobs taken a couple of days ago, followed by a new pussy pic:

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This next photo is proof that I do not exaggerate when it comes to size. For scale, please reference the ladies size 6 CFM sandal next to the very large feline:
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About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
May. 27th, 2005 @ 11:43 am Danjerus Meanderings
Current Mood: chipper
Kudos for the Day:
Thanks to the Goddess-Hoar Andria, my missing CD of Tom Jones Greatest Hits has now been replaced with a freshly burned copy and delivered promptly into my sticky paws. I can hardly wait to get home and listen to it. But first, I must hunt down some panties ... so that I can put them on ... so that I can then peel them off and fling them at an imaginary concert stage while Fantasy-Still-Young-Tom gazes adoringly at the inner-whore that is me ... Hm, maybe I should call him Mr. Jones since he is old enough to be my father. Then again, the next guy I bone is going to be young enough to be my son and I'll be fulfilling his Mrs. Jones fantasy ...

I just want to be clear that the only reason I put that last part in was because my girlfriend, Sallison (for privacy purposes, I cleverly disguised her name by adding a letter at the begining) mentioned to me at the pub last night that I haven't been writing about sex lately. She went on to say how refreshing that was and how much more she has been enjoying my essays. So, that part was for her. Cheers Sallison!

Incidentally, the reason I haven't been writing about sex is that I haven't been having any. Not that I ever write about my real sex life on here anyway. Although making up the occasional outrageous lie regarding my imaginary sex life is certainly not beyond me. It's all about the entertainment factor folks: suspension of disbelief. It does surprise me, however, that some of my smarter friends actually believe some of what I consider to be the more obvious fabrications [Tasteful Things]. Then again, what does it say about me that they would believe such things of me? What I have been having is huge hormonal shifts. I'll write more about this later (maybe) but apparently I might be going into extremely premature men-on-pause. Needless to say, I haven't been the easiest person to be around lately. But, if you think dealing with me is difficult, try being inside my head!! These mood swings are driving me batshit. OK ... more batshit than usual. (Note, I did not write "normal". You're welcome.) It's possible I may have somehow offended Aphrodite (Goddess of Love, Sex, and Family) by my months of celibacy because my usual clockwork "girl cycle" (nice euphemism, yes?) has gone haywire in the past several weeks. It's one thing to get sick from a bug or to get sick from some stupid self-abuse like drinking too much. But, this feels like my body is betraying me from the inside and that hurts! So, bring on the progesterone so we can delay this eventually-inevitable life change. If I'm not going to look my age then I sure as hell am not going to start acting it!!!

Blonde Moment for the Day:
I had to replace the paper roll in my calculator today. It turned out to be a *lot* more complicated than I was expecting! I could *not* get the stupid paper to feed forward through the little slit in the back of the unit. Solution? plug the bloody power supply back in!!! Shut.Up.

Tip for the Day:
Peppermint Schnapps ... for the nights when you want to get puking drunk but still have minty breath!

Quote for the Day:
Your daughter just got drunk at a party, made a slut of herself, and you're worried about my religious beliefs?

Sweetness for the Day:
Speaking of Older Woman Fantasies ... This is an excerpt from an email sent to me today by my sweet friend, Vern, who is, bless-his-heart, 23-years old. Allow me to preface the following quote by saying that I have not had ANY sort of romantic liaison with young Vern:

"It was great seeing you last night at the pub. Im sorry we didnt get to spend much time together. You are so beautiful and have such a glow in your eyes. Not too many people look up at me the way that you do when I hold you in my arms."

Contrary to how it sounds, I was merely giving him a greeting hug ... and the reason why I look up at him the way that I do? Because he is 6'6" and I am 5'3" in three-inch heels.
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
May. 25th, 2005 @ 01:00 pm Life in the Kathouse
Current Mood: katty
I've been saving this essay for a special occasion, and inadvertently, Rhi provided me with an excuse to post this on a day when I really don't have anything else to write about. I dedicate this post to all those who hate kats and/or long stories.

I share living space with four very large, very bossy felines. Godde knows, I didn't PLAN on having four kats, I just went through a period of being a sucker for adopting wild kats. Let me be clear from the outset that my kats are not "normal". They are all rescues and three of them are from feral litters so they are still somewhat wild. To say that they are all 100% neurotic would probably be an unfair understatement.

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Jazz (Big Fat Kitty) is a 10-year old male with black fur and yellow-green eyes. He weighs in at a stately 24-lbs, and has the loudest miaow on the planet. He uses his amazing vocal range to "page" me and the other kats. When he was younger he used to play Fetch over and over again. Nowadays he carries toys around the house in his mouth. I can always tell those times from his muffled miaowing (which sounds like somebody talking around a mouthful of food). Jazzie is diabetic and has to have twice-daily insulin shots which puts somewhat of a crimp in my social life at times. It's pretty easy to give him a shot, he doesn't even notice, the biggest problem is finding a loose enough patch of skin on his fat ... um, I mean *stately* body. He has recently taken to getting my attention when I am sitting at my computer by standing on his hind legs and patting me on the arm. This is a good thing because it helps to strengthen his wobbly old legs. Jazz believes that there should never be a bath mat on the floor in the guest bathroom and enforces this rule by peeing on any mat that I am foolish enough to place in that specific location. Although Jazz loves all three of his brothers and can be found cuddling with any of them, his true soulmate is Sugar.

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Sugar is a 10-year old male Sealpoint Siamese with no whiskers. The reason he has no whiskers is because Jazz bites them off during a meticulous grooming procedure that they have apparently worked out between them. This does not deter Sugar from streaking up the 6-foot kat "condo" and launching into acrobatics. While Sugar loves me very much, his true love is Jazz. He head-butts Jazz to get his attention and to get the grooming process underway. He also has that "adorable" little Siamese habit of nipping me when he gets to feeling a little passionate from being petted. I have tried everything to cure him of this habit, but in his mind that is how he shows me affection. Sugar enjoys a random game of Hopscotch which involves jumping from the carpet to the bath mat to avoid the tile in between, then sitting on the tile on the other side of the bath mat. I suspect that Sugar is the one who occasionally leaves a large steaming pile of crap on the carpet just to prove that while he is the purebred of the group, he can still be "one of the boys".

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Indigo is an 8-year old male Flamepoint Siamese, he has long silky white fur with honey-coloured point markings and big blue eyes. I sometimes suspect from his behaviour that Indigo is an alien. Think of him as the Blond Siamese Bimbo of the feline world as he's not the smartest of the four. He is, however, the most skittish and even though we have been together for the 8 years since he was in utero, he still runs from me if I approach him outside of his comfort zones. We have an established daily routine that begins 5-6 seconds after he hears me brushing up loose litter from the carpet around the litter boxes. Since I am kneeling on the floor, I am deemed safe to be approached at which point I am permitted to lavish affection upon his lovely self. After a minute or so of that he attacks the kat condo and commences to scratch the living hell out of it while I spank his arse. As soon as I stop he miaows at me in a rather displeased tone and permits me to pet him some more. Indigo is asthmatic. It's heart-breaking to see him having an asthma attack as there's absolutely nothing I can do to help him. He receives steroid shots about once every 4-6 months, but the V.E.T. doesn't like giving them. From my viewpoint I would rather Indigo has a shorter, happier, active lifestyle than be unable to run across the room to smack Sugar upside the head or start a wrestling match with Chyna.

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Chyna is an 8-year old male with long silky white fur and blue eyes. He is Indigo's natural brother (same litter). Chyna is very smart. He can tell time. I know this because he wakes me up at the same time every weekday morning and adjusts the wake-up call by a couple of hours on the weekends to allow me to sleep in a little. Never quite enough to suit my preferences, but at least he does allow me some courtesy. Chyna likes to drink out of the toilet but he doesn't like to put his face into the bowl. Instead he gets on his hind legs and reaches into the bowl with one front paw, dips into the water, and then licks the water off his paw. Chyna is *skinny* despite that he is a little pig and out-eats all of the other kats. Chyna believes that regardless of whether there is food in the bowls, I should be summoned at twice-daily intervals to refresh the food supply. Chyna does not like my body pillow to be on the bed and will wake me up insisting that I push it onto the floor so he can sleep in its place. For about five minutes before he jumps off the bed. When he was a little kitten he had a major problem with Mr. Buzzy. I don't know if it scared him or what but he would hiss and swat at it. Which was distracting to say the least.

The kats, as a group, have come up with their own various rules and social hierarchy. One of them is the Three Kat Rule. Only three kats are allowed to be in the same room at a given time, with the exception of meal-times. Occasionally, all four of them will pile on the bed but one of them (and this is always random) must sleep a full two-feet away from the other three. Jazz often sleeps with his "arm" around somebody else. I suspect it is also Jazz who dumps katnip pillows into the water bowls to brew katnip tea for their parties.

It's not easy to keep a fresh-smelling house when you have a cumulative 70-plus pounds of feline eating and shitting machines. Even though I scoop their boxes daily, there are rare times when I reach the top of my stairs and the smell of a brand-new-litter-box-visit almost knocks me back downstairs into the living room. Those are the Double Scoop Days (I'd like tinkles with that, please). Likewise, it is impossible to keep kat fur off of anything, hence the term "furniture". To avoid permanent furring, as soon as I arrive home I immediately peel out of my "outside" clothing and put it away.

I have learned that it is pointless to give new toys separately to each of the kats at once because they prefer to have one toy between them. That way they can fight over it and steal it from one another. I no longer question it. All four of my kats LOVE to be spanked. I kid you not. The harder the better. I mean, I can *really* whale on their backsides and they yell at me when I stop. They crouch with their butts in the air and their ears folded back as I spank away, and sometimes they'll lay into the scratching post.

Folks, I'm a professional, please don't try this with strange pussy, as injuries may result.
About this Entry
High Maintenance, Harley Girl, Eyes Close
May. 23rd, 2005 @ 11:53 am Lusciousness
Current Mood: [hic]
I had the most deliciously lazy-arse weekend. I really didn't do much of anything. I was fully prepared to go out for my usual Friday night dance-off and I was really looking forward to the stress-relief. In order to have the Energizer Bunny energy that is required to stay on the dance floor for 90 minutes or more, I always have to take a post-work nap. The problem is that I'm not always able to fall asleep so sometimes I have to drink a glass of wine to make me drowsy. Then, of course, I have a really hard time waking up. Or I wake up around midnight. Which was the case this past Friday. Ho hum.

On Saturday I met my friend Rick at the pub, had a couple of drinks with some of the girls and then we went to dinner at Cafe Toulouse. If you live in Houston, I insist you should check it out. It's on Woodway and Bering. It's a really pretty little building, has a lovely front deck, the food is fabulous, and the management and servers are all friends of mine. Unlike with me, they won't serve you gallons of lovely free wine, but I'm sure you won't mind paying your way. After dinner we floated back to the pub on clouds of wine fumes and hung out there for a while. The folks from Cafe Toulouse showed up shortly after and when I left they were busy doing shots of Yaegermeister with Rick.

When I woke up on Sunday I decided it was high time that I turned into an alcoholic. Most of my friends are heavy drinkers and they mock my lightweight attempts at drinking with them. To show them that I can hang with the big dogs, I decided to get drunk and go back to sleep. Yeah, alcohol before noon! Party on! I called my best friend Kelli and left her a voicemail proudly announcing my intentions and then I fixed myself a stiff vodka-tonic and slurped about half of it down ... and within 10 minutes I was snoring on the sofa ... and didn't wake up for FOUR HOURS! Kelli called back 2-3 times leaving me hilarious messages while I blissfully slept through the phone ringing. She finally called me again in the early evening and demanded to know how much alcohol I had managed to put away BEFORE NOON. When I mumbled my answer she went off into hysterical laughter for about an hour. When she finally calmed down she informed me that my lame attempt at becoming a drunkard was a "fucking embarrassment to alcoholics everywhere". Well, hell, not everybody can drink like a redheaded wench of Irish descent. Besides, don't you have to go to meetings in order to be an alcoholic?

So, I was catching up on Andria's blog and she mentioned listening to Tom Jones in her car. That reminded me that I hadn't listened to MY Tom Jones CD in quite some time. I scooted over to the CD tower to immediately discover that my beloved CD had gone AWOL!! Andria has burned a whole bunch of C