You are getting sleepy. You... are no longer a cat. You are a bagel.

Opie will turn 5 sometime this April. In cat years, I think that makes him...an asshole? At least some rebellious, ungrateful teenager that has abandonment issues from being adopted rather than appreciating us taking him into our home to not be made into a kitty pot pie! It's enough to make me yell, "I'm the only mother you've ever known!" at him, but that would be a little crazy.

Last night he hopped up on the desk and tried to play with my arm fat while I was on the computer chatting with Dom (who is in Virginia currently). It wiggles just right to make the perfect teaser toy, I guess, because he was grappling at my jigglies with his claws and biting me.

Then he goes and stays out ALL NIGHT with his good-for-nothing, hoodlum, teenage cat friends breaking into neighbors' trashcans and stealing leftover tuna salad. Wasn't terribly surprised when he woke me up this morning pounding on the back door to be let in. I was surprised that he knocked over my flower box in an angsty rage for not "understanding" him.

So I started my day at 7 a.m. replanting the bulbs of my miraculously resilient Paper Whites in my ducky pajama pants. And Opie is crashed out on the sofa getting hair all over my clean laundry. Why can't he get a part-time job like most teenagers?

And to think that the Egyptians worshiped these animals?

Today's subject line quote is Alf, "ALF" (1986).

Well, I'm also a wanted criminal. Who could be proud of a son like that?

Oh dear. I've reduced myself to common thievery by shoplifting from a major retail store.

You got me. It was totally an accident. You know when offices offer you something to drink to be courteous and show you how much they love your business and your big, fat mouth that will tell all of your friends how much you love their business? I can't even accept a complimentary soda without feeling like a societal wart and thinking how badly I'll ruin their livelihood with all the Diet Cokes they'll have to replace that day. So imagine my horror to find that this was still in my cart when I got to the car...

It had wedged itself between my purse and the diaper bag. But since Michael had already thrown a royal fit from the store, through the parking lot, and not stopped by the time we reached the car there was no way I was out of my mind enough to haul the screaming toddler back in there with for a packet of hot, $5 eyeshadow.

Why not just keep it? All the cool kids are shoplifting these days and I'm sick spending my proverbial lunch period in the band room. Okay got me again--not completely metaphorical. I really did spend my lunch period picking sandwich out of my braces with the other band geeks. Does it illustrate my point any less?

But there is the long list of crazy that's been trapped in my brain since the incident that's made me nearly pack up and drop off the money. Not only that, but I've been worried about telling anyone about it!

What if the C.E.O of said retail store stumbles across my blog and then informs the police? I could be dragged from my home in a puff of smoke bomb gas by a S.W.A.T team that breaks down my door! Then I have to pay for a new door!! And then they downsize even more to cover costs of the assumed MILLIONS of dollars worth of makeup products I've potentially stolen for years!

Or worse...What if my mother reads this blog, hops on a plane, to pull my by the ear to give them a formal written apology for wasting their time and money AND for failing her as a child?! Not to mention my attorney/sister-in-law is now probably legally obligated to at LEAST chastise me.

But then I thought, Wait. Didn't these losers make me cry when I was pregnant by yelling at me for going into an empty line that I was waved into by the cashier? And then I didn't feel so bad. In fact, I may steal some more shit to compensate me for these shenanigans.
Maybe some of these? Or this? Or one of those!

Today's subject line quote is Faceman, "The A-Team" (1983) {Family Reunion (#5.8)}.

Colonel in Special Ops said he was the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda.

In case you were wondering, no. No. Today's yoga class was not the magical booze cruise to Tahiti it was last Thursday.

First off, I was a little distracted by the Sweet Valley Twins performing their own version of Cirques du Soleil in the intermediate class. There were two particularly dainty blondes that were able to move their 85 lb. bodies with the likes of Mongolian contortionists. I really wanted to hand them both a McDonald's arch card tell them to "Have a Big Mac or two on me."

There was also a man there that I am convinced is the DNA hybrid of George Takei and Clint Eastwood.



As if there weren't enough human distractions while forcing my Sulu-loving ass up into downward dog, I realized something about myself. I'm the worst distraction in the studio. I'm...the underwear fiddler.

No, not this kind.



I'm a wedgie pickin', pant leg kickin', bra aduster that is constantly touching my own ass to assure no ride up and smashing my quadraboobies back into my shirt. Oh, and the pants I was modeling today managed to somehow balloon up at every stretch and make me look like Aladin. And there's nothing like a room lined with mirrors to let you know that you are not as descreet about readjusting the crotch of your panties as you had hoped.


Today's subject line quote is Colby Granger, "Numb3rs" (2005) {Toxin #2.9)}.

Are you kidding me? No, no. I'll grab my iPod.

I am now a firm believer that iTunes is directly controlled by God. How else can you explain the phenomenon of facebook note postings that form such a coherent description of the universe? Two out of Two random iTunes oriented "bulletins" on facebook, if you will, have turned out pretty sweet. This one told me to write a poem using the first line of the first 20 songs on my playlist. The title is #21.

"Under Pressure"

Yeah. I mean, I hear what you're saying.
Meet me in outer space. We could spend a night and watch the earth come up.
You got a great car. What's wrong with it today?
Right about now, funk soul brother. Check it out now.
I am the son and heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.
You could be happy. I won't know.
Jerry was a race car driver. Drove so Goddamn fast.
Whenever I'm alone with you, It's like I am home again.
A long time ago, me and my brother kyle here, we were hitchhiking on a long, lonesome road.
Crack that whip, give the past the slip.
I've come to bring the pain, hardcore from the brain.
You let me violate you.
Oh, you're gonna take me home tonight.
It's a wonderful night. Gotta take it from me.
Darling, you've got to let me know. Should I stay or should I go?
Summer's coming too fast. Winter's been here too long.
I'll kiss you once. I'll kiss you twice.
I was angry when I met you.
Something takes a part of me, something lost and never seen.
Well-painted passion, you rightly suspect.

Like the playful banter of a bashful romance and ongoing car theme? So it may not be the hand of the almighty laying his finger on random mode, but it's godly nonetheless. Makes me want to revamp it into a real poem. Here is the list of songs this fake one came from.

Another Love Song, Insane Clown Posse
Stellar, Incubus
Bohemian Like You, The Dandy Warhols
Rockafellar Skank, Fatboy Slim
How Soon is Now?, The Smiths
You Could Be Happy, Snow Patrol
Jerry Was a Race Car Driver, Primus
Lovesong, Tori Amos (The Cure cover)
Tribute, Tenacious D
Whip It, Devo
Bring the Pain, Mindless Self Indulgence
Closer, Nine Inch Nails
Fat Bottomed Girls, Queen
Wonderful Night, Fatboy Slim
Should I Stay, or Should I Go?, The Clash
Out Here All Night, Damone
Graveyard, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Push It, Garbage
Freak on a Leash, Korn
The Dumbing Down of Love, Frou Frou
Under Pressure, My Chemical Romance and The Used (cover of Queen feat. David Bowie)

For today's present, you get to be poets! It's easy. Do one. Playlist...open...type...post.

Today's subject line quote is Morgan Grimes, "Chuck" (2007) {Chuck vs. Tom Sawyer (#2.5)}.

...she'll go on and on about the time she choked on her beads at Mardi Gras and was legally dead for five minutes.

As you may know that it's Carnival season here in Lousiana. Mardi Gras is alive and puking all over the streets of the greater New Orleans area! Weekly parades in the names of various gods and goddesses are held to celebrate the joys of diablerie and sin before giving up chocolate and booze for Lent. We actually went to a couple.

The ones here in Slidell are pretty family oriented. Though if you stick it out to the end, the float riders have had ample time to enough chug Miller Lites that they think throwing beads (full speed) directly to the baby in the stroller is a good idea. I got one in the eye early on and it hurt like a bitch. Dom and I just took the stance above Michael when it got rougher.

Here is an example of the caliber of crazy that the spectators like to bring to these events. Yes, that's a Mardi Gras port-a-potty and a guy grilling in a viking helmet. No, that's not a float in the parade.



That's what people do here. They bring out the campers and park on the grass for weeks just to watch parades and get free crap thrown at them. I have a trashbag full of plastic necklaces on my kitchen counter. That's just from attending 2 parades. And Michael now needs a stuffed animal hammock for all of the bears, footballs, crabs and crawfish that were chucked at him.

There's a picture of me with our friend Larry and a random person I met standing on the street.


There's Dom and Michael...
Here are...ghost cheerleaders?

So have a Phat Tuesday, everybody! Look, I made you a cake. Well, I made Dom a cake. Okay, I made Dom a cake for Valentine's day. But that's the present you're getting today.


Today's subject line quote is Maya Gallo, "Just Shoot Me!" (1997) {A & E Biography: Nina Van Horn (#4.23)}.

Good news, everyone. Tomorrow, you'll be making a delivery to Ebola 9, the virus planet.

The Google Fairy visited me again last night. Not in the dirty, molest you in your sleep way. Sickos. Nope, The Google Fairy (or Bot to be more precise) crawled this blog for the second time since I registered the web address with Google.com!

Basically, you can register any site with Google for free. Once you do, they send out their little robots to do "crawls" and scout out the page and download all of the little links and pages to revert back to the google index. That way, you have more information when you google my name. *wink*

And here's the best part...

Google "Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio, blog" check out entry 4 on the first page! Also, the first entry is Dom and I's website. But look at 4! It's my December 28th entry about Christmas. The tag underneath the link is talking about Pond Family doing Karaoke and the DiMaggio's are too sexy for their pants.

Okay, so now google "Oh my Blog, Cassidy." The bottom of page 2 yields my myspace page! It picked up the link to the blogging group I created on cafemom.com. Unfortunately, there are no active members in it. But it did help me make the second page of Google!

Ready for the big finale? "Oh my Blog, Cassidy Pond-DiMaggio" reveals this blogger website as the first entry. Now, this isn't likely going to bring in new readers. However, if people that already know the website forget how to get here...Wham! Google it.

It's a small victory to me. I'm very excited. Stop rolling your eyes. Now take your gift. Stay cool with this google fridge...



Today's subject line quote is Professor Hubert Farnsworth, "Futurama" (1999) {A Big Peice of Garbage (#1.8)}.

It's like going to heaven and finding God smoking crack.

Why do I have to microwave my enchilada at 50% power for 8 minutes? Couldn't I just nuke the sucker full on for 4? Raise your hand if that sounds like a better plan than doubling my hunger in that precious 4 minutes. If you don't raise your hand, I'm going to eat it instead. Mmm, tasty appendages for everyone!

Doesn't matter how long I try to kill my frozen enchilada with radiation; it will come out at magma levels of hot and I will end up waiting another 10 minutes for it cool enough to not melt my mouth into a puddle of tongue on the floor. But I won't, so cheers to the lost ability to speak clearly.

For those of you wondering why I'm eating an enchilada and not the usual coffee and imaginary bacon and eggs breakfast, get with it. It's noon. I broke morning protocol of baby-highchair, coffee, blog to get ready for yoga class. It's at the worst possible time for me, 9 a.m. That actually translates to 8:45 in mommy-drop- off-the-kid-in-childcare time. And if you factor in my morning scramble to pack a bag and wrestle a toddler into clothing, we're really looking at a process that begins sometime around 7 p.m the night before.

So is it worth it--all the downward dog, ass in the air, stretching into a pretzel time? No. I go for the last 5 minutes of the hour long class. I go for total body relaxation power nap time. Yes, I will put my body into unnatural, hard poses to maneuver in (and out) of for a chance to go completely limp on the floor in near darkness. It's heavenly.

And all the yoga moves make it that much more superb to just lay down and die a little, but in a good way. The instructor came through and did a cool move with everybody too. She took my feet and and swung my legs side to side to loosen up my hips and back. Then, she came around and massaged the back of my skull. It was the most relaxing moment I have experienced in ages. I know, I'm 24 and I shouldn't be allowed to use the term "ages" yet. But I speak truth!

Now I want to go spread joy to the world by telling them to lie on their back and swinging their feet for them! Go ahead, I'll be right over.

Here's a gift while you wait for me to show up.


P.S. I kinda felt like this during the class.



Today's subject line quote is Riley, "The Boon Docks" (2005) {The Story of Gangstalicious (#1.6)}.