Game of Thrones: The Terlet chronicles

 Back in 1906, shortly before the great lard famine that was the beginning of the 100-year Swine War, a young family saw fit to build a house in St. Paul.  Over the years, this house saw few renovations other than when some bright soul thought to tile the ENTIRE second floor in mint green vinyl/asbestos tiles and when when they installed carpeting (sometime around 1948) that would still be there (smelly and worn through to the floor) in 1999 when we purchased this abode. 

For what seems like 10 years now, we here at VonPartypants headquarters have been toiling on what has been dubbed "Operation Fix This Fucking House"- a full on renovation & redecorating effort that looks to be nearing an end sometime in August...of 2025.

Well, I am ever so proud/embarrassed to say that we have finally finished another room- the very room that was the main reason that we started all this nonsense in the first place:  Crapper #1.

Crapper #1 was truly, truly fugtacular.  Actually, "fugly" isn't really even strong enough for this abomination.  The walls & tile were that color that Crayola used to call "flesh" (what do they call that color now? "White Folk"?), and the trim was the color of poo the day after eating too many beets.  I tried gussying things up over the years, but how horrifying that we lived with THIS grossness for way, way too long:

 (I'd like to say that the light looking like that was a recent thing, but we had the house re-wired over 2 years ago.  So...yeah.)

(You can see I just kind of gave up here.  By now we had a 2nd crapper and I pretty much just ignored Crapper #1)

The beginning of the demo. 

Aaaannnnddd....

New and improved!  And cute!  I'm not scared to pee in there now!

The shelf is lined in cedar- that was an idea of the Mr's I was skeptical of, but it looks great & smells fantastic. 

The thing on top of the radiator is a padded landing for the kitties- I knew they'd jump up there no matter what, so I decided to make it more comfy for their furry little behinds.

So. Much. Tiling. 

I'm in deep, deep love with the mosaic on the floor.  If you're ever in the market, Modwalls has REALLY cool tiles (not just mosaics) at really great prices.  Highly recommended.

I thought things were getting a bit too masculine in there, so I bought this print on Etsy.  I call it "Bunny Vagina"

More stuff on the walls.  My Crazy Cat Lady influence stretches far and wide at the VonPartypants Estate. You can't walk two feet in here without running into something pussy-related.  Next week I'll show you my vast collection of cat-themed embroidered sweatshirts.

We really only have one room left in OFTFH:  the kitchen.  

Ugh. 

OH, and the back porch.  

And the front porch. 

And the scary basement.

And the guest room. 

And...

Achoo, Achoo, Haiku!

Dog pukes on the bed
So much for sleeping in late
It smells like turkey


Guy drives by slowly
"Nice puppies" he says to me
I think he means boobs


Twins game on Friday
Is that football or baseball?
At least we'll have beer


Raw rhubarb, so tart
So crisp, don't eat too much though
It gives you the poops

Somewhere between zealotry and nihilism?

I once had a conversation with someone I knew, but didn't know all that well, when the topic of religion came up.  Yay!

"So, what are you?" they asked.
"What do you mean?" I answered, not really entirely understanding what they were asking me.
"What religion are you?" they replied, ever-so-nonchalantly, as if asking about what kind of car I drive.
"Well, none, really.  I'm athiest." (In car terms, this is roughly the same as announcing that I drive a rusty 1974 Pinto.)

*crickets*
"Really?" was their response.  "You really don't believe in anything?"

Um...well, it's not that simple, really. 

I'm always hesitant to engage in this particular discussion with people who do not know me that well.  Once the question is asked and answered, the conversation usually goes one of three ways:

1) I see that unmistakeable flicker on their face that marks a flash of judgment passing through their head.  This is the point where they decide that, not only will they never leave me alone with their children lest I corrupt them with my heathen ways, but they will likely not be asking me to join their scrapbooking club that meets every other Monday night.  This I can live with. These same people usually try to politely "state the case" for religion, as if I could change my ways by simply engaging in a five-minute dialog about why religion is so awesome and how could I make such a choice?  I usually get out of this exchange as quickly as possible, either by telling them I have explosive diarrhea and need to visit the can, or I tell them I'm late for my "How to knit Satanic sweaters" class and I bolt out the door. 


2) They go into persuasion/arguing mode. This is a discussion I usually stop immediately, sometimes by faking a seizure or feigning narcolepsy.  Here- I'll condense what would likely be an hour-long, heated, and ultimately pointless exchange into this: You're not going to change my mind, I'm not interested in trying to change yours.  The end. 

3) They feel the same way I do, or at least they understand and have no interest in going down that road.  Then we start talking about other stuff (usually our pet's pooping habits), have a cocktail, and ultimately leave the situation as friends, or at least acquaintances that won't intentionally avoid one another in social situations by pretending to not know how to speak English.

When people don't get it, the thing they most likely don't understand is that this isn't a choice for me.  I didn't choose to be/feel this way.  I simply don't believe in God, I don't believe in heaven or hell, I don't believe in an afterlife.  I've known this my entire life, just like I know I have brown eyes and that I can't whistle.  For a while in my teens I was convinced that the posters in my bedroom were actually watching me, but I have since come to understand that no, the boys from Duran Duran were NOT watching me change clothes, so there was really no reason to shut the light off when I did.


This isn't a choice.  It is simply how I am.  Just as those that believe can't imagine not believing and would fight to the death for their beliefs, I will fight for my convictions with every cell in my body.  I firmly believe that I conduct myself in ways that are far more "Christian" than many people claiming to be as such.  I believe in the credo of "live and let live", I treat others as I would like to be treated (most of the time, anyways. Sometimes people just suck and deserve what they get), I believe that we all deserve equal opportunities in life, regardless of where, how, or who we were born to, and I believe that, whatever your feelings/leanings when it comes to religion or lack thereof, you have no right whatsoever to use those beliefs to suppress, dismiss, or persecute other people.  Period.


I just can't imagine...believing.  It just doesn't register.  It doesn't make me amoral, evil, or lacking in character.  I don't judge you or try to change your mind, how dare you judge and try to change me.  It isn't fair. 

How about we all just try to get along, accept one another as we are, maybe go get a nice cheese plate & a glass of wine and enjoy this lovely, sunny day together?

Sounds good to me.

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.