Resting her teeth

Chloe taking a break from trying to rip the flesh from my body. Teething is not for the weak.

Death by kitten

Chloe is teething. Three words that should strike terror in my heart and send me racing to barricade my bedroom door. Instead I've quite happily become her teething ring as well as her trampoline, her personal Mt. Everest to climb, and her pillow when she suddenly switches to OFF. She brings me joy along with the scratches and the teeth marks. She reminds me that I still know how to laugh. It is a cold heart indeed that will not warm to a kitten.

Speaking of laughter . . . have you watched Pushing Daisies yet? I am in awe. I am in love. I am in desperate need of a "Kick, Pooh! Kick!" icon. Oh all right, not need. ("Oh reason not the need!") Want. Desperate want. I came close. An icon maker has a personal "Hang on, Pooh!" icon which I do lust after, but I am not a thief. A beggar, yes. Never a thief.

If I were more articulate perhaps I could put into words what it is about that show that sets me rapt and smiling in front of my TV when it's on. For fourty-four minutes (or however long it is minus commercials) I am transported into a world of vibrant primary colors, delicious dialogue, and fickle consequences. (Although I'm working on a theory that only Very Bad People pay the price when Ned goes over his minute.) Dar and I are thinking that we should always have pie while we watch, and I see from browsing around LJ that that is hardly an idea unique to us. A community pushing_pies has sprung up that trades pie recipes for just that purpose. That is the kind of show this is. Delicious, delightful, iconoclastic, off-kilter, charming, dark humored, fast-paced. (There's a loud rumbling growing louder. Not a storm. The Rapture? If I don't finish this . . .