Give June a doll box from 1972, and you’ve given her the world

I just heard myself tell the dog, “I just washed that floor,” as he skidded in with muddy paws, and now I have officially become my mother.

Then I realized that no, I actually did not wash this floor this weekend, making me officially my grandmother when the dementia set in.

I did wash a lot of floors, though, as folk were traipsing in and out of this abode all weekend to peer at little cats. And I’ve noticed a lot of willy-nilly use of the word “catten” around here, lately, so let’s review.

This is a kitten.

So is this.

Not a trick–also a kitten.

CAT. Now with catnip!

Kittens with a cat.

Kitten. By the way, if you don’t want litter every fucking where, don’t get that Feline Pine. I’ve already replaced it, after spending 394949394 hours sweeping, including sweeping the dog bed, an indignity I did not foresee.

Anyway, back to our review.

Kittens.

CAT. He truly enjoyed his first foray into the ‘nip. You’ll be stunned to hear he’s kind of a mean drunk, with the swinging at me, a behavior that he does not usually indulge in, except with Ned. He always swung at Ned.

Anyway, none of what you just saw were cattens. CATTENS, which I believe is an official made-up term, are almost-grown kittens, like when you have, say, an eight-month old kitten. They’re almost there, in full-grown bitchy catness (see directly above) but not quite there. They’re still a bit gangly.

To sum, my house has a lotta fucking cats in it right now. And yes, I swept up that catnip along with the eleventy pounds of Feline Pine.

This is a video that Alex took, when she was here this weekend, and you will note the Feline Pine ON MY BOOTS. I was Feline-n-Boots.

Also arriving this weekend were Chris and Lilly and their offspring, which the kittens were fine with and Edsel wasn’t. At one point, he leaped behind me to hide when a child had the nerve to look at him.

I haven’t had this many visitors in my room in one weekend since college.

I’ll be here all week.

Note I spent all that money on fabric propped up, there, and have never recovered my chair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I left the house only sporadically this weekend, because kittens. Dragged self to that Daniel Day Lewis movie, the one that’s nominated for Best Picture. What the hell’s it called? Anyway, it was good, and weird, which are my favorite kinds of films, but DDLewis annoys.

It just bugs me how everyone goes on about what a fabulous actor he is, and how for three months he just was Abraham Lincoln and so forth. Oh, shut up. Stop being fucking Abraham Lincoln. Just pretend. It’ll have the same effect. No one wants to deal with you going around being Abraham Lincoln, you self-important twit who plays house for a living.

Oh, your craft. Fuck you.

Anyway, so I went to the movies. Saw Daniel Day Lewis. He was a dress designer this time. Do you think he went around making dresses all day, like when we had Fashion Plates?

Screen Shot 2018-01-29 at 8.03.42 AM.png That’s some outfit she’s designing. “Yes, I envision a patchwork jumper, with a fine school-bus-orange scoop-neck T under it.”

3ed464f129504811f4c56ecbbdcf791f--childhood-toys-childhood-memories.jpg Also, while I was up, Googling, “What the hell was that dress-designing toy I had when I was a kid?” I came across this motley crew. I think I had that box, and I’m not sure why, because my Free-to-be-You-and-Me-As-Long-As-You’re-a-Feminist mother was not all that keen on me having Barbie-esque things, which made them all the more tempting. But first of all, which one’s Dawn, and where did she get these jakey friends?