We moved the kitties one at a time to the house a week ago Sunday, starting with Drusy. Our delicate darling travels poorly and cries piteously. We knew we were in for an afternoon of diva drama when we stuffed her in the cat carrier and drove six blocks from the apartment to the house. Drusy did not disappoint. She cried for a day and a half and had a kitty hissyfit when I took her up a flight of stairs. The cat box was in the attic. You will be pleased to hear that, unlike other disinfectants, hydrogen peroxide does not hurt and the bubbles amuse, even if the abrasions cause the neighbors to nod slowly and ring the gendarmes. Topaz adapted immediately to all the additional space, the flights of stairs, the curtains and the windowsills. I swear she took up smoking.

Here, Drusy discovers the fireplace mantle is perhaps a little higher off the ground than the pussycat who had never seen stairs before Sunday likes to leap.

Today is Tuesday, the day after Labor Day. Yesterday was Mom’s birthday and I forgot to call because being self-absorbed is a calling not a character flaw, but today we talked about tomato plants and Grandpa’s microwave. Pete and I have started our new life with a pot of homemade yogurt and tomatoes we grew in the backyard. Students have returned to the unnamed university and the city is overrun by police and people directed by police to keep moving. The tiny town on this side of the river is filled to the brim with cheerful persons. I walked to pilates class and encountered no end of pedestrians smiling and saying hello. Yeah, that was a close call.

Perhaps two weeks ago, Pete sat on the couch in the apartment. Drusy assumed the Queen of the Mountain position on her favorite lap and Topaz lay next to Pete. Drusy then reached out a paw and touched Topaz. The scene was so adorable I almost swallowed my tongue. I took a bunch of crappy pictures, mostly because I take crappy pictures, but it really didn’t help that I was emitting a sound that would jam radar. You probably can’t tell these things from the picture but we don’t live there anymore and Pete has curly eyebrows.

Last week, Pete and I painted the apartment white. The next day, I couldn’t get off the couch and not the good way where I have bonbons and five hours of All My Children. Nope, I had a heating pad and a Betty Crocker-approved frosting layer of Ben Gay. Thursday, Daria and I dragged some big ass furniture out to her Ford Exsanguinator and to the dumpster. Daria and I mopped, dropped off the keys, loaded the furniture into Pete’s house and suddenly we were finished moving out.

The kitchen Dad and I faux finished is now white. Breath caught in my throat a few times but I don’t regret painting over because it was just paint. Plus, you know, we live in the house now, where there’s plenty of room to nap.

For some people, politics is a game. Winning, spiking the ball and doing a victory dance on one’s opponent is the goal. In my opinion, that is pathetic and the hallmark of arrested adolescence. This is behavior adults should strive to outgrow.

Political discourse has moved far to the right over the last thirty years. The Republican Party has become the province of anti-woman pluto-theocrats, but the Democratic Party has also shown its true misogynist colors since the beginning of the primary season. What are they? I suspect black and blue: an absolutely shocking array of intelligent followers of politics feel wedged into choosing one major party candidate or another.

Really? That reminds me of this.

See, the Beasties weren’t actually expressing their desire for female company. They were looking for maid service with benefits. Once you see through that – which is Seeing Through Stuff 101 – you can see through the Republican nomination of an anti-choice, anti-green, pro-oil company woman, and the lackluster Democratic nomination of two pro-business centrists. No one there speaks for working people, for the poor, for women’s rights to bodily integrity, to same-sex marriage, GLBTQ rights, for a Supreme Court that won’t fuck us over for generations, for national security that doesn’t trample everyone’s rights to privacy, for those who always knew the war in Iraq was a fool’s errand. So: if these things are important to you there’s no reason to vote for those people, and if those people want your vote, they’re going to have to change their positions.

It’s not true that Roe v. Wade is a reason to vote for either candidate anymore. The religious right has chipped away and hollowed out the decision so that in several states an abortion is nearly unobtainable, and the right has recently taken bold steps to eliminate even simple access to birth control. This interference with and withholding of* basic health care is truly unacceptable in a modern industrialized nation, but even NARAL – that’s the National Abortion Rights Action League, for those in the cheap seats – doesn’t have much to say about it for reasons of political expediency.

Well, then. This is not a game. Women are going to die. I am not going to vote for a candidate who doesn’t understand that, and believes that I have no place to go. I do – though that isn’t quite precise enough: I’ll be where I’ve been all along, watching politicians rush to court people who will never vote for them. Believe it or not, there are candidates for high office who are genuinely progressive. I may not win, but I don’t expect to win. If, however, a politician needs me or he’ll lose, perhaps we’ll talk.

Dear Candidate: If you need my vote, you know where to find me.

Updated to include, you know, words. Shaaaaa! I was tired.

Oh, for crying out loud! There are lots of things I don’t want to talk about, like the oil stain on the driveway and my nearly empty checking account, but this commercial takes the upside-down cake.

The first few times I saw this commercial, Mother Nature said, “I don’t see any liners,” and the giddy vacationers scoffed, “Liners?” After a week or two, the commercial replaced liners with backup. Maybe I’m seeing this commercial on different networks with different policies about cooties and icky physiological goo and wacky wahinis. In other commercials, Sarah Chalke solves her wedgie problems with architecturally interesting undergarments on every channel that values a frivolous femme, meaning we’re not above discussing the fact that women – you know – wear those, and Heaven forbid we avoid having the “Detrol discussion” with our physicians and international symbols or skip pads to keep our Poise. So what the fuck is wrong with us that we can’t bear to talk about goddamn pantyliners?

h/t MW.

Pete’s house is wonderful, and I am happy to wake up here in the morning – provided I fall asleep at night. In places to which I am unaccustomed, I lie awake and think terrible thoughts: I’m so tired breathing hurts, and What the fuck is wrong with those mouthbreathers at CNN? So: once again, I’m a bleary wreck.

We’re off to Home Depot to rent a spray-painting machine and five gallons of white paint. What could possible go wrong?

I’m not much for swiping images. This spa is from the Grand Hyatt in Dubai, where I will never, ever find myself. At this point in the moving, where menfolk will move large objects in larger vehicles, when one wishes one were anywhere else in the whole world one notes: this spa is, in fact, an anywhere and it looks pretty good. After a week or two in such a setting, one might be able to stand upright again.

Hey! Nice shoes. By the way.

Pack that for me, will you, darling?

This weekend, we’ll work our shapely rears off getting into the house and out of the apartment. No one said it would be easy but with Almanzo out on the prairie, my sisters scattered across the Northeast, and my friends perfecting their dog-days ennui, someone should have said moving would be diamond-hard, though my ex-husband is lending me a truck so I can move in with my boyfriend.

But far be it from me to disappoint you! If it will positively ruin your weekend if you can’t help me walk a couch six blocks, email me. It’s going to be some parade.

During the Men’s Individual All-Around last night, Elfi Schlegel said that little girls admired Olga Korbut because she was cute. That was true – to a degree.

Some of us admired her because she kicked a whole lot of stale, ladylike ass.

Thirty awful, accidentally hilarious seconds. Tough it out.

Never have I seen better revenge on the White Man for stealing someone’s land. I mean, the Mohegan People could have just taken the money and run, but no. It’s Toto Karaoke time, motherfuckers.