Beastly

Remember that movie adaptation of Beauty and the Beast called Beastly with Alex Pettyfer and Vanessa Hudgens and it was set in High School and Mary-Kate Olsen was the witch who cursed the spoiled rich boy?

Well, this isn't about that film. Though, if I was forced to admit it, I actually kind of liked the movie. It is what it is - teenage tripe. But like Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries, there's something to be enjoyed in the shallow depths of the shiny, pretty things. Even if you don't want to say it aloud, for fear it will be the one fact everyone remembers, it's entertaining.

But, like I said. This isn't about Beastly - the movie. It's about Beastly - the state of mind.

Don't you hate it when you wake up and feel beastly. The beast of all beasts. As if the only fitting task would be to tear apart your west wing, smash all the mirrors and sit there brooding over the fact that no one will ever truly love a beast. Of course it's melodramatic and completely unsubstantiated, but in the moment, you want to just lock up your castle and never see anyone ever again. And, on the off chance someone does stumble upon your dwelling, you will toss them in the dungeon. Ha! That will teach them to sell Girl Guide cookies door-to-door. Give me all the thin mints and get in your cell!

This actually sparks a very questionable query. Why was it okay for the Beast to lock Belle's father in the dungeon? Isn't that some sort of form of kidnapping? Or, at the very least, false imprisonment? I mean, he knocked. He called out. Twice, in fact. Still, down to the dungeons with you, old man! And, if anything, shouldn't the enchanted servants take some of the blame? If not all of them, then at least Lumiere!

I regress.

The beastly days are the hardest. They come without warning, or sometimes with warning because you ate a pound of candy the night before, and they set your day off on the wrong foot. On these days, it is the hardest to look presentable. If you have a job that you work from home or at an office where you don't have to interact with the general public, you can squeak by in comfy pants and a hat, and silently wish for the day to end swiftly. This isn't the case when you engage with others and on the off chance you are SUPPOSED to look at the very least decent, it can be a daunting task. Like putting lipstick on a pig.

It gets even worse too. No matter what I wear, I am uncomfortable. It isn't my clothes, either. It's my skin. I am uncomfortable in my body. So, I try to put a little more effort in on the days I wake up in a self conscious puddle of raw emotions and unrealistic expectations of myself. Honestly, that effort tends not to pay off. I only end up feeling as if my time and energy are wasted. That I am foolish for even trying. That I would have been better off cutting holes in a burlap sack and wearing a Halloween mask.

Yes, I know this seems harsh. And, sure, it probably has something to do with the hormones. I hear estrogen is a wicked bitch. Still, once in a blue moon, these days come along. Like yesterday and, if I am being honest, which I so often insist on doing, I am still feeling residual affects today. Here's the truth of the matter:

No amount of pretty dresses, hair combing or makeup can change a Beastly day into a Belle one.  

Those are the facts. In the end, I just try to fake it until I make it through. Or make it to the weekend so I can wear oversized sweaters and no pants. Whichever comes sooner. Something funny did come of this. I told my Sidekick that I felt beastly and he told me I was, "The most beautiful beast of them all." Yeah, I cry laughed over that. It's hilarious, but still cut me a bit.

Crap, I have to add something I am grateful for on here. Ugh. Well, I am happy I can step back and know my beastly feelings are irrational, to a degree. And that I probably don't look as bad as I think I do.

Three Cheers For Bruce

So, I'm a step-mum to Bruce.

He's a funny cat. Definitely not one you want around when you don't have a bedroom door. At twelve years old, the guy wants what he wants. Food. Yep, that's pretty much all he wants, and he tells you when. In the mornings, you can't open your eyes without him meowing. If he sees you are awake, he will sneak up and pull your hair ... with his teeth.

Sure, he has characteristics that are annoying, see above, but he's very affectionate. Every night I go up to bed and he's there, curled up. Waiting.

And he comes on over. Starts purring and just hangs out with me.

Sometimes his affections are more aggressive. Sometimes he pokes my face with his paws, sometimes his claws are out. He also has this almost nauseating drooling problem that starts up whenever he purrs. The more you love him, the bigger the drool puddle grows.

Why yes, those are drool droplets on my stomach.

And the damn cat always has dirty feet, which in turn make the bed and walls dirty.

And he can be quite ornery, especially when it comes to Dixon.

Still, there's something about Bruce. He commands attention. You notice when he walks into the room, mostly because he is very heavy footed. I always thought cats were graceful and surefooted. Not this guy. He can rival a herd of elephants when he barrels down the stairs. And you can't help but adore him. He's the cat even people who hate cats love.

Anyway, last summer, just after I moved to Vancouver Island, Bruce got in a fight with some of the neighbourhood cats. They jumped him. It was like gang initiation, I am guessing. Apparently we live in a rough feline community. So, he got hurt and I drove him to the vet without a carrier. A Bruce loose in the car wasn't a wise idea, but I didn't have anything to put him in. He kept trying to stretch across the dashboard and pawing at my hands. Actually, upon reflection, this is probably the most dangerous thing I've done in the last year.

Regardless, he had some wounds.

I spent a fair amount of time bathing these wounds with salt water and feeding him medicine in order for him to get better. Yes, I cleaned the drain sticking out of his tail, much to his displeasure. Not that it was fun for me either! Still, when he went back to get his stitches removed, the vet said he'd never seen a wound so clean. That's right, I take my wound care seriously!

He's a big guy too, this Bruce. And not just portly, though he is certainly carrying around a few extra pounds. Personally, I think it's more to love, but the vet said his weight is a concern. Problem is, he's always been this way.

Big boned, maybe. But he can reach the counter tops when standing on the ground. No, seriously. Here he is fishing for a tuna.

See, the man is a beast.

Also, Bruce is a fantastic example of how blended families can work. I don't know if it was me taking care of him while he was hurt or the fact I give him pets before bed every night, but he loves me. Sure, he loves me in that aloof cat way that's only acceptable when he deems it so.

And I love him. Full wholeheartedly. Without expectations.

Drool puddle and all.

Three cheers for Bruce, the captain of the football team.

  If you look closely you can see where he ruined the wall.