Karen brought Sadie and I over to her parent's house. I don't know why-- she just did.
Anyway, it was just a normal visit.
That is, until Karen showed me the Halloween costumes her mother made for Sadie and I.
Oh, for the love of God.
I'm a cat, for crying out loud. I don't wear a costume for Halloween. This isn't one of those issues in which I'm willing to compromise, either, like don't torture Sadie on Sundays. I have my principles, which include no cavorting around dressed like a ninny. So, no, come Wednesday night I WILL NOT be answering the door, handing out the candy to the little urchins dressed like Hannah Montana or the like.
"Oh, Penelope, you look so cute," Karen said as she dressed me, much to my mortification.
Karen will get hers. She might not know when or where, but she'll get hers.
That's bad enough, right? Well it gets worse.
Saturday afternoon other people came over to visit, bringing with them "small ones". Evil Jeff brought his small one, that woman who typically brings Toby the dog brought her small one, another lady brought her small one, who wasn't particularly small, which seemed to be an ongoing joke, and her larger small one, who has no fear of God (or me) whatsoever.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction to these small ones. They are cute and smell nice, that is, unless they are vomiting or defecating on themselves. However, one day I see them and they are cute small ones who don't move around much. The next day I see them and they are quite mobile, pulling my tail, poking my eyes, and eating my food.
See my point?
Finally, I escaped to the stairwell. Typically, this is a safety zone, as most people don't want their small ones running up and down the stairs. But then came another problem:
Somehow the paparazzi joined us at this event. I didn't recall seeing Britney Spears or Victoria Beckham waltzing through the door. Perhaps they were in disguise. Whatever. But these neerdowells were in full force, predominately taking pictures of the small ones.
One of the paparazzi evidently heard I was in attendance at the party. She attempted to take my picture with a cell phone. Obviously, I don't work with the Paparazzi. Thus as she approached me I hissed at her. She then backed off a little and told Karen (And exactly what is Karen supposed to do-- does anyone think Karen can keep me from speaking my mind? Hasn't happened yet . . .), who started griping at me about being "rude".
"It wouldn't hurt you to cooperate, every once in a while."
But it would be wrong somehow, don't you think?
Anyway, that was my weekend. I'm still recovering. So I'm off to bed.
I am the Elizabeth Taylor of the feline world.