Meet Henry

I have decided that you readers out yonder (as we say in Kentucky – not really…okay, maybe) should know a little more about The Animal Kingdom.  Sometimes, I feel like The Animal Kingdom could be its only little miniseries of a blog or blog or whatever….these animals in my household (the pets, not L & T, although they can sometimes be animals especially when not fed on an interval basis – hehe) are ridiculous.  Absolutely ridiculous.

So, first in line will be our newest addition to the Taylor – Newby – Green household (my god, we are just too20151128_120254 much aren’t we?), Sir Henry David Catreau (see the resemblance? I see it, shut up!) henry david thoreau
His name prior to me saving him from the depths of pet store hell, was Hunter.  Because he liked to hunt things. No shit.  He’s a cat –
they’re predators.  He’s one of a kind though.  He h
as the fast cycling of an unmedicated person with Rapid-Cycling bipolar disorder. Henry will be sweet one moment and absolutely crack addict wired the next moment.  He’ll be curled up on my chest, asleep, and purring only seconds later across the room tackling our shitzu with the force of a linebacker. I’ve seen him torture our sweet Saki Samuel into hiding under a Christmas tree hoping he won’t be noticed. **Bad hiding spot, Saki, Sir Henry David Catreau thinks of the tree as his mini-kingdom.** 

 

Henry often climbs on parts of the house that he shouldn’t be able to climb on. Like screen doors, Christmas trees, bay windows, rod-iron railings, the bigger dogs, my legs, my back.  It’s painful, especially when its a body part.  Just this morning, I was sitting on the couch and Henry jumped up from where he was behind me sleeping, and proceeded to jump on my back in an attempt to climb up my t-shirt.  His nails were out so not only did he climb the t-shirt, he also climbed my back.

His favorite thing to climb, is the screen door.  He’s a lunatic with the backdoor.  I don’t even think he wants to go outside as much as he just 20151227_142011.jpgwants to climb to the very top in hopes that we have placed a bell he can ring to notify the cat-gladiator world that he has DEFEATED THE GAUNTLET!  See below, for his latest victory run on the GAUNTLET!

And of course after all that hoopla and carrying on, he lays down next to his frenemy, Saki Samuel, to take a little snooze before hunting again.

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Tamir – As 12 year olds do…

When I was little, I used to run around my neighborhood with toy guns – water guns, cap guns, wimpy bb guns. I used to shoottamir plastic BBs with my friends-a scraggly crew consisting of 2 little white boys (brothers, if I remember correctly) that were always so dirty from full spring days of tackle football, a black kid with a gap between his front teeth but a nice smile, a freckly tow headed pale girl who helped me navigate the neighborhood, and my best friend at the time would sometimes make an appearance when she was spending time with her dad.  There was a smattering of brothers and sisters older and younger than us that clung on the outskirts of our little group, whether to wrestle with us when we did something wrong, or to point us in the “right direction.”   I felt like we had our own little ecosystem and honestly didn’t think much went on outside our world.  I didn’t pay attention to the cars that drove by and I didn’t wonder what they thought – were we a danger to our community? No. Did we look like it at times? I’m sure.

We played football, we raced bicycles, we drank kool-aid, we played hide and seek, told ghost stories in the old woods, and caught crawdads behind our house, played tag, chased one another around with the BBguns that didn’t even sting when they hit you.

At times we would sit around and wait for one another. Sometimes with BBgun in hand, practice shooting the different imaginary mind made targets around us.  I’d even go as far as to say that I probably pointed it at people driving by, crouched down in the grass being as incognito as possible. Pretending. Alone and pretending, as 12 year olds do.

Like Tamir Rice was doing. Maybe he was alone. Maybe he was waiting for his friends, as 12 year olds do.   As I did.  As many kids do.  Children now have airsoft guns, that look a lot like real guns but so did ours back then.  They have BBguns.  They play with and against one another.  They shoot at targets alone.   What’s changed?

Despite time changing throughout the years (although in this  I must admit I’ve seen kids be so enveloped in the games they are playing that they forget the reality around them – as in, stop playing that game and listen to me teach you things!!), I still see kids playing outside. Cops and robbers. Good guys and bad guys.  Pretending. Playing. As 12 year olds do.  As Tamir Rice was doing, sitting on the playground.

The difference? I was a white kid living in a low to middle class neighborhood.  He’s a black kid.  A black CHILD, age 12, with an air-soft gun.  Maybe he didn’t have parents who told him to not point it at people, maybe that would make things different, maybe not.  Hell, as an adult I’ve rolled around in the leaves hiding from my nephews in Tennessee pretending to shoot things at one another.

It makes me sick that Tamir was killed not just for being a child, but mainly for being black.

The Holidays

I haven’t posted in some time, and for that I am very very sorry. Life has been busy lately and this seems like the first time I’ve gotten to sit and breathe and just be.

There’s something about the holidays that has the ability to make me epically sad and ecstatic at the same time. It’s somewhat of a mind fuck to be honest. I think it’s due to seeing family and going home only to have to turn around and come back. I miss my parents all the time. I miss the comfort and laid backness that is my old stomping grounds. And when I’m there, I desperately miss my home in Maryland.  I think about my dogs and cats, my family, my home and how relaxed I am there as well.

It’s conflicting. I miss home when I’m home. I feel guilty about wanting to be home when I’m at home, whichever home I mean at the time. 

It’s just hard. But, it’s the Holidays.

Where’s Adam Sandler When You Need Him?

Let me tell y’all about Thanksgiving.  This is the first year that I didn’t fly home for this holiday, and although I missed my family I definitely had an eventful time at home.

This was also my first year teaching somewhere that we got off the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It made my break seem a week longer than what I’m used to.

Anyways, a majority of my break was spent binge watching “How To Get Away With Murder” with Tay on our couch, playing Madden 16 on the xbox while relaxing in my indoor hammock, and preparing to cook on Sunday for A Crew Thanksgiving. For those who don’t know, the Z Crew is comprised of myself, Cindy, Laura, and Tay…Laura’s nickname LGz sparked us to all refer to ourselves in the same manner – CTz, MTz, CCz, and LGz. 

Our first Thanksgiving in the lovely Taylor Haus of Ill Repute consisted of a ridiculous amount of cheese especially when 2 of the 4 of us try not stay away from large amounts of dairy. Hell, I drink almond milk nowadays with my cereal. I think there were around 3 pounds of cheese in the Mac and cheese. My gods, it was perfect though.

Turkey. I touched a naked, raw, turkey. If it were up to me, that damn thing would have worn a sweater. I hate the feeling of raw meat and poultry. I’m gagging thinking of it, right now. If you’re lucky, I’ll post the video of me cleaning (or trying to) out the naked bastard. It went like this….

Taylor: come on, sweets, time to clean the turkey out, I can’t do it with one hand.

Give it some colace, or mag citrate, that’ll clear it out.
Me: okay, I’m coming.

Tay: you have to get the gizzards out, and the neck. 

Me: wait… What?  I didn’t sign up for turkey innards.

The next five minutes were me staring at this giant 16lb bird, poking it occasionally, gagging constantly. 

Why didn’t we get turkey breasts, like my mom said?  Why do I have this giant bird, naked and slimy in my sink, for four people?

Taylor wouldn’t stop laughing at my meager attempts to unhook the legs of the turkey from one another to really do much else, so Laura came to the kitchen to help. She informed me that the legs were bound by skin from the turkey that was stretched to make the legs stay closed.

Me: wait, what?  Skin?  I don’t do skin.
Laura: Move, let me do it.

I stood back in horror as my hero dismantled the turkeys bondage skin and removed gizzards…IN A PACKAGE.

I watched Laura and hummed Adam Sandler’s turkey song…couldn’t remember all the words but the comic relief helped in my head.

Me: how they going to do that?  Take things out, package them, and stick them back in and close it up with SKIN? twine wouldn’t work?

Next thing I know, I enter back into the kitchen to see Laura remove the neck…which looks like a thing I won’t mention, in the unlikely case that you have virginal angelic eyes. Let’s just say, I screamed. Maybe not outloud but on the inside I was terrified of the turkey…thing…that was just pulled from the turkey’s butt, or what exactly had I been reaching into?

You know what, I can tell I’m not mature enough for this, and that this turkey diatribe is going no where it needs to. Wait for the video.

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-CT