In which cawingcrow's ears are assaulted by the siren stylings of a cat fight.

Extracted from a chat log.

(18:41:28) cawingcrow: My cats are howling insanely.
(18:41:42) azurelunatic: So I read. Any police visits yet?
(18:41:57) cawingcrow: There is nothing wrong up there, I went and checked once already. Not yet. The walls are thin here, so it is quite possible they'll achieve it soon.
(18:43:47) azurelunatic: Now I have this vision of a lovely cross-stitched door hanging, saying something to the effect of "My cats are insane banshees and are not actually being murdered," except in quaint rhyme with illustrations of cats hissing, racing, crashing into vases, and puffing up Halloween-style.
(18:44:02) cawingcrow: *laugh*
(18:45:16) cawingcrow: Now they are sounding like air raid sirens.
(18:46:00) cawingcrow: hmm...wet cat food would be giving in sorta, but would shut them up for a bit. ... gonna go feed the kitties
(18:48:51) cawingcrow: Hell, it may not be my cats, going outside a moment.
(18:50:17) cawingcrow: Nope, got to be him--can't believe the cat would rather scream than eat wet cat food. And he's perfectly happy and frisky when I'm up there. Nothing is wrong with him.
(18:50:54) azurelunatic: An air raid siren, a banshee in pain
A little lost child who knows not his name
All of this wailing reminds one of that --
but none of these; it is my cat!
(18:51:08) cawingcrow: *laugh* So true.
(18:51:36) azurelunatic: That's not even doggerel. It's catterel.
(18:57:25) cawingcrow: Ugly sounding fighting upstairs--be back soon.
(19:00:41) cawingcrow: How embarrassing. I've been blaming the wrong cats. Just went out the FRONT door and saw the combatants, who are apparently fighting right beside my wall by the computer. Gonna go chase them off if I can.
(19:03:33) azurelunatic: 'k.
(19:04:52) cawingcrow: Cats are chased.
(19:05:05) azurelunatic: Hooray!
(19:05:22) cawingcrow: Hopefully they will stay away. Looked like two big guys, so guessing not the in heat bit. I guess beside my house is territory they are spatting over.

In which my brain is on crack.

Somewhere in the back of my brain I have the crackheaded idea that even though I've already given up on nanowrimo, somehow in the spaces of spare time I have between now and the end of November, I can pound out 43,176 words. Keep in mind that today is Monday. I work today. At the soul-sucking job that has been eating my muse. Tomorrow is Tuesday. I work tomorrow. The day after that is Wednesday, and the end of the month. I have that day off. I have writing group that day. For whatever reason, writing group eats my whole day on days when I have it.

6,824 / 50,000 (13.0%)

So. Not. Finishing.

Back to the family, a guaranteed emergency

A few nights ago, either late or early, I decided to make myself some toasted English muffins with cheese.

Sometime in the past little while, the sheet of aluminum foil in the toaster oven disappeared, perhaps because it had already seen a few too many droplets of over-toasted cheese. In my infinite wisdom, I did not see fit to replace it before toasting my cheesy muffins.

The toaster dinged merrily after a few minutes, and I wandered over to retrieve my prize -- and found to my everlasting shock that the interior of my toaster oven was merrily blazing away!

Some of the cheese had dripped on the metal piece covering the heating element, and lo and behold, the cheese started flaming away like a despot's oil well in the face of an invading force.

I extinguished my toaster oven and retrieved my muffin. (The muffin was still edible.)

I can cook. I can cook.
Sometimes the kitchen just doesn't like me. Now that the cheese has been scraped off the inside of the toaster oven, it does operate perfectly nicely.

(no subject)

The wind blew my ears news of a party or a verbal fight. It was party, behind the old copy shop. Scruffy men with beer.