Not My Favorite Holiday

Ron just got back from the grocery store and announced that he got the candy for this week-end. My first thought was, "Candy? Who needs candy? Did ya get the beer?" Then I remembered: shit, it's gonna be Halloween. And really Ron, have you forgotten my cardinal rule? Never buy good candy to give out. Buy the stuff we don't like. After all, WE'RE GIVING IT AWAY!
'Course I'm not really sure when we'll be at the mercy of observing this aggravating  annual ritual. We may be tortured giving out candy on our otherwise peaceful Saturday evening, or else Sunday (the true Halloween) will be ruined the night. Either way, take note, Knoxville: I will only answer the door to the little demons rugrats on one of those nights, not both. So pick one and get the word out,  because if one pirate, one ghost or one witch comes to my door on Saturday night, that constitutes Halloween. And it means that I can turn out the lights and pretend not to be home to Sunday night's stragglers trick-or-treaters. And it also means that I can eat the heck out of those delicious candy bars that Ron bought.

Identity Crisis

Our new pet loves to play fetch morning, noon and night, chews on everything in sight (including us) and has serious separation anxiety when she's left alone for more than a few minutes (judging from the dumps she's taken in places that have no resemblance to her litter box). Sounds like we got a new puppy, right? Wrong! What we have is a cat who is suffering from a bad case of species-confusion. It's the damnedest thing. The goal was to get a female (which is why we didn't adopt my personal favorite, her brother Coop) because we wanted a calmer, more tranquil feline in the house. What we ended up with is a holy terror who thinks she's a friggin dog! Considering the fact that she loves to lick people and she never, ever meows, I fully expect that she'll be barking any day now.