finslippy

Find out what I would do for a good cause.

Tomorrow, the 2008 Donors Choose Blogger Challenge begins. Donors Choose is an incredible organization that matches teachers in high-needs schools with people who are willing to give. Teachers register with the site and describe what projects they need sponsored, and donors can pick and choose which projects they want to help fund. Donors receive thank-you notes from the teacher and from the students, as well as the satisfaction of knowing they made some teachers' lives that much easier.

So the Blogger Challenge is just a bunch of us bloggers competing over who can raise the most money. I would like to win this thing, of course, but more importantly I want to get a big fat bunch of money raised. So I ask you, the readers: what sort of hoops would you like to see me jump through in order to raise some money? I can and will humiliate myself on video, if it's for a good cause. As long as it doesn't involve anything death-defying, expensive, or nude, I will consider it. Please email me your ideas at finslippy AT gmail DOT com. Be gentle. And hilarious.

My Blogger Challenge link will be up tomorrow morning. I can't wait!

UPDATED TO ADD: There are going to be some gifts given away, in exchange for donations. If you have an item or items you want to give away to a Finslippy reader, now's your chance! Email me.

I am not at all afraid of my cat.

My cat tried to kill me. But I'm sure I had it coming.

It all started when I mocked my cat's ass on Twitter. Izzy the cat is—well, she's become a big girl. She rapidly morphed from an adorable teacup-sized kitten to a hulking mass who causes the house to shake when she jumps off a chair. Here is what she was:

And here's Izzy now!

She actually looks relatively slender here, due no doubt to her slimming black hue. She's way more of a moose than you can tell from the picture. In real life, she causes people to exclaim in surprise when they see her. She's not small.

I don't even know how she fits on this windowsill.

I know that this is partly our fault. Or at least it's our fault for not addressing the issue as soon as we noticed her rapid expansion. It occurred, as these things do, after she was spayed. When she figured there was no reason to keep up her girlish figure. She let herself go, and we let her do it.

Look, now her back-fat is causing her to slip:

So lately it seems that she is too heavy to clean herself. Specifically, she cannot reach her butt. And this is disgusting. I even tried cleaning her myself—out of love, yes, but mostly disgust—but the fur is all matted, and now there's no getting it out. It's clear that we need to take her to the vet and get the whole cat-butt problem worked out. She's also apparently incapable of cleaning her back, now, and let's face it, it's really hard to pet her when she's like this. Our love, apparently, is conditional, and the condition is "must not have pooplets stuck to ass when you rub our legs for a pet."

Oh wait, I just found a picture in which her enormous girth is revealed.

NOW YOU SEE. Quick, look away—I can't be sure what prolonged viewing of her Rasputin-like gaze would do to your brains.

I feel bad for her, but that didn't stop me from writing a Twitter about her ass. And not a few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, and Izzy dashed in front of the doorway, causing me to fly across the room, landing on both wrists and one knee. I had to lie there for a while. Henry came in and offered to kiss my knee, but I demurred. Over the next few days, my knee turned all kinds of colors. My parts hurt. But it could have been much worse.

I have never almost been killed by a cat before, and it's a humbling experience. I can only conclude that Izzy can read, and that she's following me on Twitter. She's probably reading my blog. So I just want to say here that 1) my cat is beautiful, no matter what condition her ass is in, and 2) I was wrong to publicly mock her. Oh, and 3) I am sure that if we take her to the vet it will be so she can be admired, and not to have her hindquarters shaved and a tasteless diet food prescribed. In conclusion, my cat is beautiful. A big, beautiful beast.

If I don't post in a couple of days, you'll know that she didn't accept my apology.

Welcome, Star-Ledger readers!

For those of you not living in New Jersey or regularly checking the Star-Ledger's site, I was featured today in the paper and the Star-Ledger's Parental Guidance blog. I can't think of a single complaint about this interview, which is unusual for me. I wasn't renamed Alice Brady, and the writer actually made me sound like an intelligent, reasonable being, neither bitter nor narcissistic. I'm not sure how she accomplished this, but I won't question her methods. Thanks, Carrie!

And now I suppose I should prove myself worthy of her kind words by, uh, writing something, or whatever. Hrrrm.

As some of you know, my son is currently enrolled in half-day kindergarten, which is (I'm trying to phrase this delicately) kicking my ass all over town. Half-day translates to two hours and fifty minutes, and factoring in the time it takes to walk him there and back and then answer a few calls and maybe make some lunch for myself before I keel over, I'm left with exactly three minutes to write. (Don't double-check that math.) In general my son is an easygoing sort, the type of kid who can be left alone for hours while he builds deadly Lego constructions, so I thought our mornings would be full of him playing while I, you know, channeled the Muse. But lately he wants quality time. With me. And you've seen those eyes; how can I say no to those? Even if his eyes were squinty and not particularly disarming, how can I turn away my baby when he requests a little face-time? I cannot. And so I have been listening to story after endless story, stories I can't really follow involving superheroes and Star Wars characters involved in multi-tiered conflagrations, and my brain, it is crammed full of five-year-old chatter. Inventive chatter, to be sure, but chatter. General Grievous! Trans-warp systems! Alien nanotechnology! Etc. So now I can no longer put sentences together in a way that sense they make good. Soon, though, the child will tire of me and let me get some work done. And then, crap, I'll have no excuse.

Addendum. And pictures!

I think I made my son sound more obnoxious than I meant to, in yesterday's post. The whole "OF COURSE I" whatever is such a put-on that I find it really amusing. He uses this voice that's not quite his, a sort of a mock-yell, and he quickly reverts to his charming self. It's sort of our schtick, that I ask the questions I'm not supposed to ask and in return he's indignant. In general, I've made it a goal of mine to not complain about my son in this venue—it just doesn't feel fair to him anymore, now that he's growing up (despite my best efforts) and not a baby with the typical baby issues. So. Okay!

On Monday Henry was sick-ish—just unwell enough to spike a fever right before school started, but then well enough to spend the next three hours demanding playground time. I denied him the playground, because I am a Cruel Woman who does not want him to have Fun on the days he is Afflicted with a Malady, but it was a beautiful day and I got stir-crazy so I suggested taking the dog for a walk.

Henry agreed, and took the camera. He took many photos that look just like this one:

But then I suggested he take a picture of Charlie, and he really got some good shots, if I do say so myself.

I like this extreme close-up of Charlie blissed out on whatever godawful substance he located on this tree. .5 seconds later, he peed on it.

Then Henry gave me the camera, and I watched him and Charlie running amok in the park.

Doesn't he look sick?

I would have been more upset about the lost half-day of freedom if my son wasn't such good company. (Most of the time.) Not that I was unhappy to see him off to school the next day. Sorry, kid, but mama's got to have her writing time, else she goes crazy. Thank you for understanding.

The Indignant Kindergartener.

Henry is shocked—SHOCKED!—that I dare move around in space and talk to him and have the gall to ask him questions. He learned from someone (I'm still searching for the source, and I will find it, oh, and how that person will rue the day) to answer every question with the handy phrase "Of course I (fill in the blank)." The above should be stated in weary indignation, as if the questioner should really know better by now. "Did you have a good day at school?" I might ask. "OF COURSE I didn't!" This is usually followed by violent eye-rolling and the occasional drop to the floor. His horror that I would dare ask such a question renders him incapable of bearing his own weight. His legs have simply given out from the shock. And yet here she comes again, with more questions! "Did you have gym today?" The eyes roll around and around. "OF COURSE. And it was BORING. All we did was WALK in CIRCLES."

Even if the response is positive, the affect is the same. "OF COURSE I had a good day at school. I only had the BEST DAY EVER. AAAAAAH." "And what made it the best day ever?" I might ask. "Obviously, that I WAS THE BEST KID," he booms, "And of course I ANSWERED EVERY QUESTION RIGHT." Then he throws himself to the ground because he can't believe he has to WALK with ME. GOD.

On the other hand, he's answering my questions this year. He can act as tough as he likes, but I'm still getting the precious, precious info. I realize that being excited to hear that "Nicholas STEPPED on my FOOT during LINE-UP" is pretty pathetic. But seriously, it's the most he's told me since the day he entered preschool, all those many years ago, when he wanted to marry me but didn't want to tell me what they ate during snack time.