The Anarchist and the Dictator Go to the Doctor, and I Die of Embarrassment

We took the whole day off for dental/doctor appointments yesterday. The Dictator was despondent most of the day, because she knew she was getting a flu shot, and her pain tolerance is pretty much zero. The Anarchist was giddy for most of the day because going to the doctor's means a captive audience, which for the Anarchist is very best thing.

Aww...look how wholesome, and normal,
and NOT embarrassing they look! Looks
can be deceiving.

 THE DENTIST APPOINTMENT

The dentist appointment was fine, except that I maybe broke their Keurig machine and didn't tell them. Also, some kid who looked like he could be one of the college students I work with came trotting out of the back yelling, "Molly? Molly?"

Me: Yes?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Hey! Um...so one of your kids. Uh...there are two of them, so I get confused...uh...the Dictator. You know her chipped tooth?
Me: Um...no?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Yeah. You know. The bottom tooth that's all grey and chipped?
Me: I...uh...don't look into her mouth ever. Mouths are gross.
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid (whispering conspiratorially): Ha! Well, the chipped tooth came out in shards and I had to extract each shard separately. I didn't charge you, though.
Me (wondering if Twelve Year Old Dental Kid pulled one over on his dental superiors and if he might get fired for not charging for a shard extraction): Uh...thanks. We appreciate it.

[Twelve Year Old Dental Kid skips away...probably to play video games or whatever boys that age do]

You guys. I found out from my kids afterward that there was no way Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was going to get in trouble from the grown ups in the office. Because here's the thing...Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was not a hygienist. He was not a tech. Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was the DENTIST. He has already been through dental school. He is the Doogie Howser of teeth, probably. (Please help me, I'm getting old. This is what aging feels like, isn't it?)

The Doctor's Appointment

To set the scene, imagine me holding 17 coats (okay, three coats, but they were puffy), the Dictator in the fetal position next to me, glaring at the Doctor, and the Anarchist on the Doctor's stool, spinning ceaselessly. Then imagine the Dictator intermittently getting up to practice pirouettes and pique turns, then sitting down when she realized she was supposed to be angry.

The Fat Assassin has issues.

Doc: How is everyone?
Dictator: [lifts head and glares]
Anarchist: GOOD! Except the Dictator never plays with me and our cat is mean!

Doc: So, Anarchist, who lives in your house with you?
Anarchist: My mom, dad, sister, and the cat.
Dictator (under her breath): You mean the murder kitten?
Doc: And how is everyone getting along?
Anarchist: Everyone is getting along great. Except the cat. She has issues.

Doc: Who's going first?
Dictator (snarling): I'm going never.
Anarchist: I WILL! Because I'm braver than the Dictator. Also, she never plays with me.
Doc: So, are you ready for a hearing exam?
Anarchist: Oh my GOSH! I LOVE those things! A hearing exam is how I got my glasses!

Doc: Do you take vitamins?
Anarchist: Yeah. When my parents remember to buy them for me. Dictator doesn't though, because they NEVER remember to buy her kind.
Doc: [raises eyebrows at me]
Me: [sinks into puffy coat pile]

Doc: Do you guys drink pop?
Me: (furiously pantomiming to children that they must answer "no" because don't they remember last time?)
Kids (joyfully and emphatically): YES!
Doc: About how often?
Me: Well, usually only about once a month...
Kids (drowning me out with their enthusiasm): ALL OF THE TIME!

Doc: Anarchist, hop up on the table.
Anarchist: Why? Are you going to check all my cat bites?
Doc: Your what?!?!
Anarchist: What are you going to check?
Doc: What do I usually check?
Anarchist: My butt?
Doc: Uh...your ears and nose and throat?
Anarchist: And my cat bites?
Doc: Do you ever take the cat to the vet, Anarchist?
Me (apologetically): Well, it's been a while...a lot longer than it should have been. We actually need to do that...
Anarchist: NEVER! We NEVER take her! And she's still alive! Maybe that's why she bites me...
Me (hiding in the coat pile): Well, I mean she's an indoor cat, so...
Anarchist: When she dies we can get a puppy! A puppy will play with me, because the Dictator sure won't.

Doc: Anarchist, how are your bowel movements?
Anarchist: Do you mean POOP?! [proceeds to detail every bowel movement from the past several weeks in detail, with sound effects, song, and alarmingly specific descriptions...this conversation lasts close to 5 minutes, and can most likely be heard from the lobby...of the neighboring building]

This one can make
up lyrically impressive
songs about feces
on the spot.

Doc: Dictator, how much sleep do you get?
Me: Well, she goes to bed at 9, but she reads, so it's probably later. We try, though...
Anarchist: THE DICTATOR STAYS AWAKE UNTIL ALMOST MIDNIGHT EVERY NIGHT! I SEE HER!
Me (defensively, reasonably, with great fear of being judged): It's probably not quite midnight, Anarchist. I'm sure she...
Anarchist (butting in): It IS! I check the clock! But I sleep in, so it's fine.
Doc: Dictator, you need to get more sleep.
Dictator [very seriously, while crashing into the wall mid-pirouette]: I can't. I have to read.
Doc: Well, maybe read for a shorter period of time.
Dictator (leaping/crashing into the counter): If I did that, how could I possibly finish reading everything there is to read? Be reasonable.

Doc: Dictator, how's school?
Dictator: Boring.
Doc: Really? What kind of grades do you get?
Dictator: All A's
Doc: So what's your favorite subject?
Dictator: Science? No...Math? No...uh...none of them. I don't like any of them. I just want to dance all the time.

This one's probably plotting
the untimely demise of
her pediatrician.

Doc: You want to be a dancer when you grow up?
Dictator (appalled): Of course not!
Doc: What do you want to be?
Dictator: Uh, NOT getting a shot?

Flu immunizations enter the room. The Dictator runs to a corner and proceeds to behave like a terrified, trapped animal. The Anarchist sees this, and decides that all of the drama cannot belong to the Dictator. She immediately launches into fake tears and fake trembling, cowering behind me while shrieking and pointing at the nurse. The Dictator is chased around the room. The Anarchist screams as much as possible. Flu immunizations occur. The Anarchist laughs. The Dictator looks betrayed and enraged. She glowers a death glare at the doctor.

Doc: You can hit me if you want, Dictator.
Dictator (because hitting him wouldn't kill him, and she clearly wants him dead): No.
Anarchist (gleefully): I'LL hit 'im for ya! [proceeds to whale on doctor's arm the entire way down the hall to check-out].

All of the nurses at the nurses' station were laughing hysterically at us as we exited. I'm pretty sure the meaning of our existence as a family is to provide entertainment with our crazy antics. We are like the jesters of suburban Michigan. But while I enjoy entertaining people, I think the Bureaucrat gets to take them to their next doctor's appointment. I'll be at the vet with The Fat Assassin (murder kitten)...she's far less embarrassing.

The Fat Assassin's Tacky Sweater Party

Yesterday, my favorite person made all of my wildest dreams come true.  Yesterday, I was thrown my very own, super festive, glorious-er than glorious tacky sweater party.  It was truly phenomenal.

The neckline of my perfect new garment of clothing makes
speech a touch challenging.  Oh I do so love a challenge!

Some of you may have seen pictures that were prematurely leaked to the internet on various social media networks.  You may also have encountered false allegations that I was less than pleased with my new woolen attire.  Let me take this opportunity to set the record straight.  These accusations are completely false.  Not only was I delighted to wriggle into my brand new, brightly colored, form fitting holiday cat sweater, but I was devastated when the party ended early, due to a tragic misunderstanding.  It turns out that the ever-so-flattering turtleneck of my favoritest new article of clothing wreaked havoc on my vocal chords (havoc, which was, by the way, entirely worth every moment of gasping and retching), and I may have accidentally hissed instead of purred with pleasure while luxuriating in my fabulous get-up.

An astute observer, such as the Female Person, would have immediately understood that I intended to communicate only praise and gratitude for my sweater-having situation.  Unfortunately, she was not present, and the less-adept Male Person, wrongly perceiving my ecstasy to be suffering, tore my beautiful sweater from my gorgeous furry self before I knew what hit me.

Let me be absolutely clear.  I am eternally grateful to my People for throwing me such a wonderful tacky sweater party.  I have never longed for anything more than a tacky sweater party.  My tacky sweater was completely worth every cent of the $2.50 the Female Person was so insistent that we spend upon it.  She made the right choice.  She is a genius.  I will always cherish her gift, her intellect, and her desire to see me in a sweater.  Not only did I thoroughly enjoy my very first tacky sweater party, but I excitedly anticipate my next tacky sweater party.  Female person, you made all my dreams come true.  Thank you for cramming me into a paralyzing sweater.  Thank you from the bottom of my furry heart.


I love you.

So what if I couldn't stand upright in my couture sweater?
I'm madly in love with it.  Look at how it slims my torso,
and accentuates my beautiful pear-shaped figure.

All Photos Courtesy of the Bureaucrat, 2011.

Aftershock: A Postlude, Part I (Can you have more than one part in a postlude? I can!)

So the trauma is ended, the Anarchist is born and released from the caring arms of the NICU and all is back to usual in Mortlandia (which sounds cooler than "Morton Land," I've decided).

Well, not exactly usual.  It turns out that even traumatic experiences that end well have lasting effects...on every member of the household...for a long time...like, maybe, forever.

The Bureaucrat:

After meeting this little miraculous bundle of
anarchy, nothing else mattered as much to the
Bureaucrat.  Aww...he was just a baby, here!
(As was she)

The Bureaucrat had the unpleasant position of attempting to continue life-as-usual at work during the whole prematurity crisis, all the while juggling a hospitalized wife (and then, baby) and a displaced toddler.  Not so fun.  But he handled it beautifully.  I'm sure he dealt with a lot on a deep, psychological level, but as the Bureaucrat is a cool customer with little show of emotion, I'm not going to venture a guess at all the emotional turmoil raging deep below the surface.  I'll just tell you what I noticed.

To be blunt, the Bureaucrat became somewhat less worried about money.  This is a big deal.  The Bureaucrat has always been obsessively worried about money.  Most likely this is because we are dirt poor and he is very responsible (I never worry because I operate under the misapprehension that money grows on trees).  But the poor Bureaucrat used to worry to excess.  Now he just seems to worry an appropriate amount.  Maybe things have been put into perspective?   (Alternatively, this is entirely unrelated and he just gave up caring because we're so poor it's absolutely futile to even attempt to do anything about it.  Maybe he's already resigned himself to our living in our parents' basements...)


The Fat Assassin:

At first, the effects on the Fat Assassin went unnoticed.  This is probably because she has always been extra-neurotic, even for a cat.  But we soon discovered that the Fat Assassin had developed trust issues.  For about three years after the birth of the Anarchist, the Fat Assassin became decidedly uncuddly.  Not that anyone ever dared cuddle her in the first place (she's a biter), but she had--in her earlier days with us--often climbed on our laps, chests, beds, laptop keyboards, important documents in order to cuddle us.  During the whole Anarchist fiasco, she was often left alone until very late at night when the Bureaucrat would stumble into the house and she would get to curl up next to him for a few hours and assure herself that people still existed.  Then the Anarchist came home, surrounded by plastic tubing essential to her very life and breath, and the Fat Assassin (who had a propensity to gnaw on said plastic tubing) was kicked out of any interesting area of the house.

The Fat Assassin keeps her distance.  Humans will just
break your heart, anyway.  (One of these days we're going to
discover her journal of angsty cat poetry from this period).

Cue trust issues:  humans aren't to be counted on to be present; when humans are present they bring with them tasty tubing and then deny tasty tubing to sweet kitties; sweet kitties are apparently no longer welcome in the vicinity of nice-smelling babies or tasty tubing; no one loves sweet kitties; sweet kitties might as well turn aloof/vicious/or throw sweet kitteny selves off of cliffs; sweet kitties aren't feeling particularly suicidal and (sigh) no one would even notice sweet kitteny absence anyway; sweet kitty chooses aloof/vicious, but remains very much alive.

Thus, a three year period of uncuddliness ensued.  Just recently, we have been accosted by excessive displays of affection from the Fat Assassin.  It appears she's getting her snuggle back.  It takes a while to process trauma, and even cats aren't immune.  Luckily, even felines can overcome.

The Dictator

Many people speculate that the reason our Dictator is, much like our pet, so neurotic, is that she was semi-separated from both her parents for a period of time at a very young age (whereas it is theorized that the Fat Assassin's initial neuroses stem from her lack of lady parts).  While I don't disagree that witnessing your mother wailing, "Please, God, no!  Don't take my baby!" in the middle of the night and then vanishing into the mist for three months might potentially trigger some sort of deep emotional scarring, I also wish to point out that there was never a point at which the Dictator wasn't neurotic.  Recall, she came out of the womb skittish and suspicious.  She trusted no one.  She still doesn't.  This is not because of some sort of traumatic separation, but because she's utterly convinced that she is the only competent creature in the universe and that everyone else is going--to sound utterly British--to muck everything up.  She doesn't trust me to make her sandwich correctly, for heaven's sake!  What all this preemie business did do was create a completely justifiable situation in which not to trust.  Now we can point to those traumatic three months and say, "she's been through a lot," whenever teachers/friends/neighbors/perfect strangers raise their eyebrows at her dictatorial behavior.  Little do they know!

The Dictator returns to her room (or, kingdom) after a three
month sojourn to the place of the grandparents.  She now
attempts to reestablish authority over her plush subjects.

 *****

Now, these souls have been through quite a bit.  I won't deny them that.  But let's be honest.  I am a whole lot more screwed up than any of them.  Mind you, this is not because I somehow have suffered more (there are many perfectly sane people who have been through far worse trauma than I), but because I have frail nerves...like a mother from a Jane Austen novel.  The Anarchist, too, has experienced several lasting effects of all this because she is the actual preemie in the situation.  She is completely justified in having been impacted to such a degree...me, not so much.  But what can you do?

I will delve further into the psychological depths of the Anarchist and myself (lucky you) next time.  Until then, should you encounter an obese and overly-affectionate cat with a tendency to bite, or a kindergartener who insists upon overseeing your every move as you make her lunch/shop for your own clothing/get her sister dressed, cut them some slack.  They've been through a lot.

What I Learned On My Christmas Vacation OR An Insider’s Guide to Pushing the Morton Family Buttons

This year, Christmas vacation afforded the Morton family the rare and much-needed opportunity to actually be present in the same room—all of us together—for more than 30 minutes at a time.  Truth be told, I had forgotten what the Bureaucrat’s face looked like, having only been able to view the top of his head as he ate his dinner or leaned over his law books for the past several months.  Turns out the children resemble him as much as they do me…go figure.

Of course, our children resemble us in much more than just physical features (the Dictator has my eyes, the Anarchist has his forehead); our children also have inherited a fascinating mix of our personality traits, both good and not-so-good, so that the combination of personality traits clashing and sometimes exploding in the Morton household this Christmas was nothing short of a fascinating spectacle.  We had to reacquaint ourselves with each other, with our various personality quirks and compulsions, and learn how to live with one another again.  In the process, we fast discovered how best to torment one another, deciding by trial and error exactly which buttons to push to manipulate, annoy, retaliate, or destroy, depending upon our needs. 

The following is a guide to pushing our buttons, should you ever need to seek vengeance against any of us.  Use it wisely.

The Bureaucrat:

• Leave a mostly empty mug of coffee wherever you go.  When you need a refill, get a new mug and leave it somewhere different.  See how long it takes to grow mold on the mugs.  Insist that the house’s growing mug collection is part of its charm.

• Eat graham crackers on the couch.  When graham crackers are halfway finished, sit on them.  Let crumbs collect over time for maximum effect.

• Wait until the Bureaucrat is at a lengthy mid-sentence pause (this should be easy, as they are frequent).  Sigh heavily and urge him to “hurry up.”  Snap your fingers impatiently in his face while doing this to maximize his rage.

• Become convinced you are dying of your head cold.  Attempt to convince the Bureaucrat you are dying of your head cold.  He will LOVE this.

Dictator:

 

• Touch anything that might arguably belong to her.

• Insist that skirts and cloth shoes are not always practical clothing options.  Suggest pants and boots, instead.

• Make dinner.  Place her sister’s cup at her place at the table.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned cup-mix-up.

• Run out of blackberries or strawberries.  Offer apples, pears, oranges, peppers, pineapples, carrots or blueberries instead.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned produce "shortage."

Anarchist:

 

• Sit on the spot on the couch nearest the television.  Refuse to move.

• Use the phrase, “use the potty.”

• Wait until she has consumed a coin.  Remove the remaining stash of coins to a safe, undisclosed location.

• Suggest that she is too small to do anything.

Me:

 

• Discuss at great length, and in extremely minute detail, your plans for some part of some specific activity for the day.  Be sure to obsessively analyze the various ways in which the mundane task (for example, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, packing your Littlest Pet Shop Friends) might be carried out.  Ask constantly for reassurance that your decided way of carrying out said task is the most reasonable.  Repeat regularly for maximum effect.

• Be excessively compliant until two minutes before we have to leave to go somewhere important.  Upon my urgings to hurry, remove your shoes, coat and hat.  Run off to another level of the house to “get something.”  Forget you are supposed to be leaving.  Weep because someone touched your possessions.  Insist that I help you find something.  Start dancing in front of a mirror.  Cry because I’m angry.  Become angry with me because we’re late.

• Put the dishes away, but neglect to put them in rainbow order. 

• Leap out from a dark and secret place and sink your fangs into my calf.  Go on, try it.  I dare you.

and, lest we forget, the Fat Assassin: 

• Pass the upstairs linen closet (in which the cat treats reside).  Ignore repeated, entitled meowing for cat treats.  Neglect to give out cat treats.

• Wrap Christmas gifts.  Refuse to let the Fat Assassin luxuriate all over the overpriced designer wrapping paper.  Kick the Fat Assassin out of the room. 

• Attempt to sort the dirty laundry mountain in the closet upon which the Fat Assassin has made her cozy bed.

• Withhold your fleshy calves for any reason.

just my type

Every now and then, I find it amusing to indulge in a little personality typing.  I hadn't run my family through the Myers-Briggs in a while, so I thought I'd take the personality test for them and see what the results were:

This is how a bureaucrat dances

The Bureaucrat: ESTJ (supervisor)

So, my husband is the complete opposite of me.  We create balance for each other, I guess. He likes order, orthodoxy, rules, responsibility, and all other sorts of bureaucrat-y type things.  Not surprisingly, several sites listed a whole lotta presidents as ESTJs, including George Washington and Dub-ya.  Also present in this clan of bureaucrats: Judge Judy, Sandra Day O'Connor, the Reverend Billy Graham, and Dan Rather (I do so like the way that young man reads the news).

The Dictator strikes a world domination pose.

The Dictator: INTJ (mastermind)

Oh, Dictator, you are such a dictator!  Gifted, opportunistic, perfectionistic and impassive.  Guess who's on the list of fellow INTJs?  Donald Rumsfeld (world domination, anyone?), Rudy Giuliani, Hillary Clinton, Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy, Jane Austen herself, a whole slew of presidents, and last, but certainly not least, Hannibal Lecter (as in, I'm going to eat you with fava beans and a nice Chianti).  Fantastic!

Our little party girl.

The Anarchist: ESFP (performer)

The Anarchist is our social party girl who loves to talk.  How very ESFP of her!  She shares this type with Bob Hope, Arsenio Hall, my own personal childhood hero Mary Lou Retton, Kathy Lee Gifford, and best of all, Tim the Toolman Taylor.  Note the lack of presidents.

She would totally eat your face, given the opportunity.

The Fat Assassin: INTJ (mastermind)

I'm fairly certain our family pet shares a personality type with my eldest daughter...and Hannibal Lecter.

See how much I look like a squishy alien?

and Me:  INFP (healer)

Of course, I get the childlike, fluffy, squishy personality type.  I would be disgusted with myself, but at least I get some hardcore ethical perfectionism thrown into the mix, just to give me a little personality street cred.  And I'm in good company: Homer, Virgil, the Virgin Mary, Annie Dillard (personal adulthood hero), Shakespeare, a couple of prominent saints, and E.T....yeah, the extraterrestrial.  Sounds about right.



And I'm infinitely curious about everyone else in the universe, too.  If you know your type, leave it in the comments...just for fun.

Thankfully

Sigh...the Mortons came out of the Thanksgiving craziness well-fed, thankful for the blessing of wonderful families, and relatively unscathed. Here is what we are thankful for:

The Dictator:

• Princesses
• Drawings (of princesses)
• Markers (with which to draw princesses)

The Anarchist:

• "Bllrrrbt..."*
• "I don't know-WUH!"

The Bureaucrat:

• His phenomenal wife allowing him to sleep in until 10 am the day after Thanksgiving
• His beautiful wife cooking pumpkin pancakes for him when he finally did decide to wake up
• His gorgeous wife

The Fat Assassin:

• The singularly stupid human family not forgetting to feed her, even in the midst of their collective turkey coma

And Me:

• Mashed potatoes (always the first thing that comes to mind, even though I know I should be saying something schmaltzy and sentimental like "family and friends.")
• IKEA furniture-thanks for being affordable enough that I can actually have furniture and not feel like a squatter in my own home.
• Only vomiting twice as a result of my own Thanksgiving-related gluttony
• Those nice people shopping at Target or Meijer with their children who say things like, "Just SHUT UP! You never have anything important to say anyway. You are SO annoying. I'm gonna beat you good!" for making me realize that I may actually not be the world's worst parent
• Those folks who are clearly not hard-up for cash, who hold up entire store lines squabbling with the cashiers over 50 cents worth of fried chicken legs or economy Christmas wrap. Thank you for reminding me that it's crazy to care so much about things and money.
• The Anarchist's really loud set of lungs, which remind me daily--and usually in a quiet, public place--that we are so blessed to have her lungs actually working and healthy.
  
• Family and friends. No. Seriously.
• Mashed Potatoes

Parenting Tip of the Week: Scapegoats

As I am currently in the running for "Mother of the Year," I thought I would bless you with some useful parenting advice on a regular basis, so that you might have a shot at being a halfway decent parent yourself.

Tip #1: Scapegoats are indispensable

Your children will naturally want to blame you/or each other for every transgression. Is a toy missing? Probably your fault. Did she trip over her own feet? Yes. But maybe if you hadn't given birth to her it never would have happened. Did someone eat that last piece of Halloween candy? Sure. And that someone was most likely you, but do you really want to deal with the consequences of 'fessing up to it?

Sometimes it's important to model mature and ethical behavior and assume responsibility for your actions, accepting whatever the negative outcome may be. And sometimes it's important to preserve your sanity at all costs by picking your battles wisely and blaming a scapegoat.

It is crucial to come up with a scapegoat early on, as most children learn to blame you for things as soon as they learn to accusingly point their chubby, sticky fingers at you and yell "Mama!" or "Dah-ee!" You must not let this last. We found that the cat worked in a pinch for the first couple of years of life. "Who moved my Giggy Bear?" the Dictator would ask with a deadly, vengeful glare. "Oh, that was Kitty," the Bureaucrat would assure her. At which point the Dictator would turn her death stare on the cat, leaving Mommy and Daddy in the clear. Needless to say, the Dictator is not a moron, so this tactic only lasted so long. "It was NOT Kitty! You're just SAYING THAT!" Time for a new scapegoat.

My first mistake was teaching the Dictator how to point.

We found that family friends work nicely. You can orchestrate this, or have it come about serendipitously, it doesn't really matter. The important thing is to encourage it once it happens. If you don't already have a family friend scapegoat, try arranging a post-bedtime soiree at your home. Be sure that it is early enough that your children will hear the guests arriving. When your children wake up in the morning and find something to blame you for (which they invariably will), blame one of the guests from the night before. Because your children know that--unlike the cat--this guest has opposable thumbs and is therefore actually capable of erasing their drawings from the MagnaDoodle, they are very likely to believe you.

Perfect. Now you just have to be consistent. Every time your child flings accusations at you, simply blame the new scapegoat. We actually have the Anarchist believing that our scapegoat lurks around our house in the middle of the night, spilling water, turning off lights and putting away Play-Doh sculptures...and we don't even have to mention him any more. The kid immediately blames him on her own. The system is so perfect, it runs itself. And you never have to be blamed for anything again...by your children.

The scapegoat on the other hand might not be so pleased, and the ethical implications of what you are doing are shady, at best. Eh...so you make a few enemies and potentially sully your immortal soul. Isn't that a small price to pay for parental sanity?

*Note: It is NOT advisable for you to use your spouse as a scapegoat. While he/she is an extremely handy option, and one onto which your children will enthusiastically latch, this choice might potentially be destructive for marital relations. Blame the hubby at your own risk.

The Anarchist is already plotting her revenge against the Fat Assassin (aka "Kitty") for moving her toys.

meet the fat assassin

It turns out that I neglected to introduce you to a member of the Morton family. She was highly offended and reminded me, by way of a flesh wound, that she will not be ignored. So it is with my sincerest apologies that I introduce you to the Fat Assassin.


By all laws of physics, the Fat Assassin should be nowhere near as agile and stealthy as she is, but we all have the calf scars and bloody wounds to prove that she is, in fact, agile and stealthy. Deprived of her "mama parts" and claws before we ever met her, the Fat Assassin carries a grudge of epic proportions, which she takes out on those who have the great misfortune of existing in her general vicinity. While she is (rarely) cuddly, she should be considered armed (albeit, not clawed) and extremely dangerous.

Current "reminder" flesh wound: