Go on. Pass the cookies.

Well, nothing says CHRISTMAS like a hole in your face.  So, I've heard.  It turns out that the boy needed a minor surgical procedure in his mouth region, which has subsequently resulted in scads of "cool, soft foods," which is just 'bout the antithesis of Christmas-Christmas-joy-joy foods.  Case in point: HOT chocolate...not COOL chocolate. Marshmallows bobbing in chocolate milk just doesn't have that warm and fuzzy vibe.  But he's all fixed and recovering, so let's cookie on, shall we?

Actually, he ditched us (ibuprofen and ice pack in hand) to watch the Star Wars movie with his dad this morning while the girls and I whipped up (another) 4 kinds of cookies.  This brings our freezer total to 10 different kinds of cookies.  A veritable feast of riches for what will be 11 people.  One of whom is 9 months old.  I'm still working on that 11th kind cause who wants to share when we can each have our own two dozen cookies?

(My lightbulb is popping at me.  Is the electricity on the fritz now?  Can we just continue the general falling-apart-y-ness that this house has been falling into lately?)

(I'm not that much of a dolt that I believe a burned out lightbulb indicates bad electrical work.  But it does feel like it's falling apart.)

(I'm looking sidey-eyed at you, toilet.)

It hasn't been ALL doom and gloom over here, folks.  I mean, I got to rip apart our bed like a savage to try to grab a snarly, snappy cat who DOES NOT TRUST THE TREATS OFFERED AT 8 AM. 

This actually was a bit more gloom.  I was being facetious.

After wrestling the cat not only out of my bedroom but also out of the door, he wailed to his little heart's malcontent all the way to the vet for his yearly physical (you should see the little kitty treadmill he has to run on to check out his feline heart!).  The following are all things that he did not "care" for:
1.  the vet- who is a super nice guy...our kitty boy isn't the best judge of character
2.  the vet's assistant
3.  the waiting room (sans any other pets, nonetheless!)
4.  the cold, aluminum examination table
5.  the smells
6.  the scale (though to be fair, who does?)
7.  the process of having his ears cleaned out
8.  the vet's hand.

The following is what he did not mind, whatsoever: his rabies shot.  That's right.  Did not mind.  (Cats were created differently than we were, actually.  Their skin/nerve situation is a bit different, which allows for no pain come shot time.)

This is our diabetic fuzzball, so having regular vet checks is pretty important with him.  But he transforms to something of a snarly coot when stressed to the max.  Case in point - when he was first diagnosed with diabetes about 20 months ago, he stayed at the vet's kitty spa facility overnight to be regulated and have some sort of blood performed.  However.  He was such a holy terror that the vet called me the next morning to say "Your cat is a hot mess and I feared for my life when in his presence."  (Or something like that.)

BUT!  He's more manageable when he hides his fuzzy little head in my armpit, thus delivering all sorts of rump space to the vet for his shot and some exam work.  AND!  This works well until the vet pricks him for a quick blood sugar and it turns out he's a gusher.  This turns me into a r-u-s-h-e-r to the nearest chair. 

For those of you keeping score at home, this was the SECOND time that I felt all fainty and such at the vet's office. 

Seriously.  Who does that? 

It turns out that our boy's diabetic woes seem to be returning, which means that we're probably going to have to deal with one of those emotional decisions sooner rather than later.  So that's really the gloom about this whole trip.  He was all perfecto on our last trip, so this is just a big 'ol bummer to have in the back of my mind. 

It helps a tiny touch to have you know, TEN VARIETIES of cookies lurking in my freezer right now.  I'm an emotional eater, and I'll be the first to admit it.  Rarely will I turn to a cookie for caloric nurturance, but when it's beginning to look like Christmas...EVERYWHERE I GO, then slap on a Kris Kringle cap and call me Santa.