Updates & pictures: Now with 50% more pussy shots!

 Well kiddos, summer is (in theory anyways) in full swing here at Casa de VonPartypants.  I'm done with classes, I handed out caps & gowns for graduation, I may or may not have had a few cocktails prior to said graduation, and I am officially available for parties and Bar Mitzvahs, assuming you are entertained by me singing along to Slim Whitman songs while dressed as Lady Gaga.  

A bit of the miscellany that has been keeping the squirrels in my brain busy, at least when they're not otherwise occupied humping each other and stashing peanuts in my houseplants:

None of my 4 cats or singular dog ever, ever, EVER snuggle with one another.  Not when sleeping, not when...well, sleeping, because that's pretty much all they do, right?  The other day, I was on the couch with Bacon the chubby kitty when Bubs decided to get jealous.  Before you can say "single multicolored hairy male", he wedges himself between me and Bacon, sitting on Bacon in the process and alerting me to his borderline-psychotic need for all of the attention all of the time.

I ordered a tasty purse for myself as a "god you're old" b-day giftie.  This purse is gorgeous, luxurious enough that I may have sexually assaulted it, and it is HUGE.  The box it came in looked more appropriate for two king-size comforters than a sexysexy handbag.

But I guess it's just the right size to be a "no boys allowed" clubhouse for Millie, the crazypants, talks-to-herself and sees things that aren't there kitty.

(Go away! I vant to be alone!)

 

Trouble likes to pretend that he's Superman when he's sleeping.

I tried to quickly pose by a fountain in Rice Park following my tipsy visit to the graduation ceremony, and I can see that my lack of self-portraiture lately is evident in the obvious deterioration of my portraiture skills.  I'm wearing a kickass dress & boots here, but I may as well have been wearing a dress made entirely of used kleenexes, given my ability to "capture the moment."

The big-ass gardening project that has ruined my back and forced me to get a lot more comfortable with manure than I normally care to (other than that one time I did it in a field on a cowpie with that farmhand. That was magical.)

So there you go- my week in photos.  Purses, pussies, and poop. 

Well, I feel eleventy plus a bajillion yet still as young as a pre-tween. You figure it out, I'm no good at math.

On this, the eve of my quatro y uno day of my birth celebration ( known in lesser countries as "Day Numero Uno Kickass, or "Fraulein Oldlein Sexylein""), I find myself pausing to reflect on what I have accomplished in this past year, the one where I found myself smack dab in CougarCuntry (patent pending).

• I got not one, not two, but THREE zits in the past month.  Given the amount that I spend on anti-wrinkle salves, ointments and tinctures, it seems supremely unfair that a delicate flower like myself must be subjected to late-night, wine-induced extreme pimple probing, in a sad recreation of a typical Saturday night in my 1985. On a related note, do old-timey tinctures still contain things like cocaine and heroin?  If so, I'm in.
• On a related note- I got Botox.  Twice.  Number three is coming up soon.  I see this becoming a twice a year splurge, much like designer tampons (did you SEE the Marc Jacobs extra-absorbent?  The magenta ones are to DIE for!).  Now, before you get your only-slightly-stained-panties-and-that-was-from-when-you-nearly-hit-that-family-of-midgets-with-your-car in a bunch, I would bet my next born cat that you would never, ever have been able to tell that I had done a darn thing.  The problem with all these crazy-assed monied reality-TeeVee snatches is that they tend to go, well...overboard.  A little is good, doing your whole face makes you look like a dog hanging its head out of a 747 cruising over Boise. 
• After last May's feetie owie surgery, I can wear heels again!  High ones!  Successfully!  My personal financial consultant (aka my dog) has expressed concern about the ridonkulous amount of money spent on hooker heels in the past few months.  He says I may be able to write them off on my taxes, but only if I install a stripper pole in my front yard and spend no less than 3.5 hours a day accepting dollar bills into my underpants. I can live with that. 
• Also, in no particular order:  I became a life-coach to a 7 year-old Mexican girl for an evening, I tried to stop putting "running" in quotation marks when referring to it as something I "do", but failed, I pulled my crotchal region stumbling off the treadmill after "running" one day, I got youtube-worthy drunk at Gwen's house while wearing Pajama Jeans, I took in a stray cat that pissed on my entire house and reduced me to a cookoo quivering pee-scrubbing rageball, I took a cat to a (no-kill) shelter for hopefully the first and last time ever, I ate so much kale & beets in one week (for no particular reason) that I pooped in technicolor, and I was extremely unsuccessful in censoring myself, even when it comes to poo. 

Also?  I missed you monkeys.  Though there's probably about 4 of you out there anymore (and two of you are drunk- you know who you are), I survived a particularly brutal school year and I'm ready to overshare with y'all once again.  Whether or not anyone is paying attention, I'm ready to be that totally inappropriate cousin that shows up at the family reunions with my "ethnic" boyfriend, reeking of doobies and making out with him and maybe Uncle Larry during the ham dinner.

 I'm here to take the blame- bring it on, motherfuckers.

Hola monos, me parece que he perdido mi pantalón.

 So I went to Mexico a few weeks ago with the Mr, my girl Waffle & Mr. Waffle (both heirs to the Mrs. Butterworth's syrup empire).  I had no expectations for this trip, other than escaping MN and possibly playing "hide the tamale" with a Ricardo Montalban lookalike on a sunny beach while drinking (hopefully) non-roofied margaritas. 

Other than the weather being kind of a dick for the first day and a half (super windy, gray, but still fairly warm) (Our condo is the one next to the palm tree furthest to the left),:

the trip was, overall, awesome.  The first night, the restaurant we had dinner at was on a lagoon, and this guy was hanging out right under where we were sitting.  He was about 5-6 feet long and was begging for treats like a scaly, man-eating puppy:

 These guys were perched near our condo for most of the time we were there.  If I have to pick a non-human mascot for this trip, I'll just go ahead and pick "scaly, bitey thingies":

The obligatory "toes-on-the-beach" photo.  Mine were already chipped and my feet were pretty mangled, and this was day one.  Why I even try to class up the dive joint that is the wonder of Me is anyone's guess at this point.  It's like trying to put lipstick and false eyelashes on a wet cat:

Then the weather stopped being an asshole and decided to play nice.  This would be day 1 of the "What kind of messed up sunburn will Whiskey get this time?" game.  Here's a hint: my legs looked like I was wearing pink thigh-high stockings, and I had a mystery half-moon burn under one boob:

Hey!  You didn't tell me that your sexy Italian grandpa was going to be here too!:

Sorry, no pics of yours truly as every single one had other people in it and I don't have time to doctor pictures right now.  Just Imagine Sofia Vergara in a bikini with my face and you'll have it about right. On a related note- there were a bunch of clearly over-30-something gals that were still rocking the pierced belly button thingy.  Now, I may offend a few of you with this, but I have to be honest- it looks ri-diculous.  I don't care if you're totally in shape, curvy, stick thin or built like a large apple- you need to cut it out.  There are some things best left to the early 20-somethings, and along with Hello Kitty and the "69" position, this is one of them. Stop it already. 

I love, love, love vacations, but I'm usually ready to go home to this little dude when they're nearing an end: 

Also, other highlights from the trip in no particular order:  Sand in my buttcrack, drunken life-coaching a 7 year-old Mexican girl, obsessing over the many exciting varieties of Mexican snack chips, eating my weight in guacamole, many fruity cocktails, a city bus with a strobe light and Latin techno music playing, salt water turning my hair into a rastafarian nightmare, and me and Waffle successfully crashing a very swanky wedding at the adjoining Omni hotel. 

Adios!