Cat in the...Purse?

Doctor Seuss would be proud. On Sunday morning, as the Lady and the Significant Other prepared to head out for Father's Day visits, I found myself in the most precarious position. Normally when visiting the S.O.'s abode, I am treated with the utmost respect and am left to my own devices, perched atop the freezer at the back door. This day, however, after a late night, I wasn't as perky as I normally am. As I sat waiting for the Lady to pick me up on her way out the door, the S.O.'s fluffy, black and white cat jumped up and -oh! it pains me to relive this- sat right down on top of me. As I struggled to free myself, the Lady and the S.O. laughed hysterically and snapped an incriminating photo. I ask you, Reader, do I look like a pillow?

Rootbeer Float

The Lady has spent a considerable amount of time prepping for a birthday celebration in honour of her 28th and the Significant Other's 33rd birthdays. Making salsa, guacamole and the various layers of the layered dip, which by my estimation has approximately three components and is a little boastful to be referring to itself as "layered", but I digress. On Thursday, the party shopping included the purchase of a two litre bottle of rootbeer for the personal consumption of the birthday couple, likely while watching True Blood in their pyjamas.

The Lady packed all the drinks and chips into the back of her car -the quirky Matrix aptly named Zippy- to bring to her parents where the party is taking place. She was concerned about everything shaking around in the hatch, but put it to the back of her mind. She parked in the driveway and without a second thought, opened the hatch. The bottle of rootbeer rolled out of the back, bounced off the pavement, was punctured by a rock and came to rest in a puddle where it proceeded to spray a mist of rootbeer across the driveway. The Lady stood in the driveway, staring at the bottle until her sister, Stinky, came outside and told her not to stand in the spray for fear she might get sticky.

Now all that remains is how the Lady will tell the S.O. about the untimely demise of the rootbeer, for which he only paid one dollar.

Food Fight

Dear Reader, this may be news to you, but The Lady is getting old. Not too terribly old, yet today she is one year older than the day before. To celebrate her birthday, the Significant Other took her to a restaurant neither one had tried before -The Lady was secretly impressed that her fella had picked a place she had wanted to try but hadn't had the wherewithal to visit. The food was South American in scope and The Lady decided to have a spaghetti -her favourite birthday food- with shrimp and crab smothered in some sort of chevre sauce. Potential for mess, she thought, but it looked too good to pass up. The S.O. picked a slab of meat -Purses such as myself aren't familiar with cuts of beef, although this one appeared to be of an Argentinian variety. Because it liked soccer? No, I kid. The meals arrived with the meat presented in a most unusual fashion, on a skillet on a big cutting board. Potatoes and vegetables rounded out the dish with a small container of a chunky tomato salsa to top the meat. As the S.O. repositioned his massive wooden board, the container of salsa slipped off the plate, did a double flip -from where I was sitting- splattering his crisp blue shirt and landing on the floor in a massive mess. The Lady looked at him. The S.O. looked at her. She paused and then said "We'll laugh about this later." A glass of soda and a soiled serviette later, the shirt was presentable, the meat was consumed and The Lady was pleased at how calm and collected the S.O. was after his salsa bath.