Pussy vs. Pussy

So many of you have asked how I'm doing. Very kind of you. Rather than expound on the topic, I'll tell you a little story that ought to sum it up fairly well:

Wednesday was to have been my first day back at work, effectively concluding my stint on not-so-short-term disability. I rose early that morning, got gussied up in a new dress and kitten-heeled sandals, strapped on my painfully heavy backpack, and set out, anticipating a reasonably triumphant return to the workforce.

Exactly five hours later I stumbled back into my apartment, completely dishevelled, new dress soaked through with sweat, feet blistered and screaming, having succeeded in travelling no more than three miles from home. The profound and riduculous failure of New York City's mass transit system left me stranded in Brooklyn with no chance of getting to the office.

Bedraggled and disgusted, I stripped off my smelly clothes to let the blessedly conditioned air dry my dripping skin. Five hours of carrying a 15-pound backpack all over hell had left my newly repaired neck extremely sore and uncomfortable. And so it was that, in deference to my condition, I squatted down to pick up a letter I'd dropped on the floor, rather than simply bending from the waist to retrieve it.

Grady immediately barrelled toward me, crossing the room in a stripey orange flash. I was charmed, thinking that he was just happy I was home. How adorable!

In fact, he was attacking my unfortunately exposed tampon string. Rather viciously, too.

We struggled over it for a few moments, Grady clawing and biting with all the joyful force a four-pound kitten can muster, me pulling and clenching and swearing and trying desperately to protect my genitalia.

You may or may not be pleased to know that I emerged victorious, thanks to Kegel exercises and Grady's limited tampon-wrangling experience.

I only wish I were starting school this fall. I'm fairly certain that my "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" essay would win some sort of fucking prize.