DatingGod

Failure and Flight

This past Thursday was my first day free of the fellowship I've been in the past year. My friend Kelly sent me this in a series of back and forths:

You have a cubicle hangover. Your body and mind are coming out of autopilot defense mode after almost a year, right? Totally good to just accept it and take some time to integrate the freedom and process the feelings of rejection and relief.

I read those words and felt: okay, yes, this is what's occurring, this is the Not-Me that I am very aware is coursing through mental, physical, emotional bodies. It's what's underneath the recurring startle, the cascading knee-jerk responses that say Do Something, do something Now, what are you just sitting there for when there are broken things that need to be fixed?

It's from a year of doing things, not sure if they were being done right, doing my best, and so often receiving only a response of a frown and silence. And then taking that and going back and trying again. More frowns. More silence. More work. More trying. Until I woke up one morning back in October and got: this sh*t feels awful and it isn't Who I Am, and they know it, and I know it.

That is the point where the lawn and the moon and stars and the burning and fermented plants and Florence and the Machine came in. Where this combination of their energies crashed into me, hammering at the wall of No that had been created, a kind of jailbreak that was surprising, not just in its content and methods, but also in how successful it was. Frowns and silence lose their power when the previous night was spent with the universe flowing through body, mind and heart, dancing outrageous gorgeous electrifying Yes until I fell down on the lawn in a heap of wonder.

But there was still work to do. I needed income. The fellowship didn't finish up until December 31st. There was no next job to move into yet. Then they asked to extend my contract until the end of February. With still no next job, I accepted, put my head down and worked. Stopped socializing with the folks I worked with. Stopped taking a break for lunch. Stopped trying to make any of it anything other than the work, and getting as much of it as I could done. Total focus on what I'd agreed to do, committed to seeing it through until Life released me from it.

I stopped writing. Stopped trying to do anything other than work, then come home, watch tv shows and movies, read, sleep, with forays out onto the lawn every couple of days. I ate a lot of healthy food, continuing the healing of gut and back pain through energywork and compassion and acceptance and release. Spent a lot of time outside, on the lawn and on the back porch, day and night, watching as the land around me moved into winter. I spent a lot of time doing this:

 

And I learned that being still and quiet for long periods of time facilitated both the snuggle and the flow. And I also learned that I still have many friends in the world, friends that call and text and visit, friends that skype and do sessions and send long emails describing their own process of setting themselves free. Friends that are planning their own escape from the No. Friends that filled my entire 46th birthday day (February 16) with wine and song and hysterical laughing and music and the magic that is facilitated via smartyphones and skype.

And then I created something that blew my mind, and my heart, wide open. It's been in the works for over a year. Something I took extensive notes on as new aspects popped into my head. That I wrote narrative around when I came in from hanging with the moon and stars, communing with Florence. That seemed more like a dream than anything else. That I kept adding to only because it felt more real than the supposed real life I was living. It was the answer to the obsessive questions blaring through heart and mind the past couple of years: what do i have to offer? is it valid? is it genuinely of use? does it genuinely make things better for people? do they want it? It was this: 

 

 

It's all still in motion. More will be revealed. I just need more time on the couch. More sleep. More time outside walking. More yoga and hot baths and green smoothies. Less thinky thoughts and connection to the stored past inside me that allows fear to deliver its electroshocks. Less contraction. More expansion. More time to process it all. More time to allow the Yes to flow more seamlessly now that the ordeal, the training, the trial, the test, the Whatever is done for this leg of the Waking Up process.

And as she has been for months now, the soundtrack is courtesy of Florence and her Machine:

     

 

Fuzzy, Toasty, Thankful

I kind of dread the end of the year holiday season, though probably not why you might.

Sure, there's the horrible xmas music, blaring from all directions, starting sometime in early November. And the stress folks go through, trying to pull off a big family feast with the least amount of family fireworks. Or the crazy spending of wads of cash on stuff, stuff that isn't usually either needed or wanted, usually slapped on a credit card with an interest rate that is not dissimilar to a kind of date rape with no hope of prosecution. 

Yeah. But the core source of my dread? Other folks who well-meaningly want to pull me into the middle of the fray, to give me gifts and then feel hurt when I don't give them one in return, or invite me to thanksgiving to witness the fireworks of their family. They don't understand that I simply opt out. Truly out. Just say no.

Because what I feel to opt into during this flow of season is hanging with my tribe, my fuzzy band of tricksters, my pod of snugglers, my weaselly brethren. Because we really, truly, just want to hang out in bed, explore the rich possibilities of impossible snuggling positions only found in an apartment heated to 63 degrees, by three cats, one human, and a pile of blankets and pillows, maybe get up and have a little protein, then hit the snuggle caves again, and laugh and purr and maybe bite a couple heads.

To me, the holiday season means time and space and freedom to chill. I'm not lonely. I don't get lonely. I don't need for any of the humans in my living to prove their love to me through stuff on a certain day of the year. I don't need to be part of a group of humans and share a specific meal to feel connected to my tribe. And I know that the folks who love me have gotten used to me opting out in this way, and hopefully feel some relief that I'm one less loved one they have to stress out over and pour energy to. 

And as for gifts and shared meals, when they occur, it is so very sweet. I received an email the other day from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab and I ordered a couple of bottles for myself of the limited edition scents they concocted for their birthday. And then saw an image in my mind's eye of the lovely Kelly and so ordered a bottle for her. Or when she gets the urge, she sends me jars of her fantastic homemade pickles, or hilarious stuff off etsy that is so me, like a cell phone case made of felt with a crow embossed on it.

Or my sister, and how we get together and share a meal and have a few laughs, usually around rednecks or poop or how crazy we all are. Or she does as she's done for several years now, and gives me enormous bags and bags and bags of designer clothing, passed on by the wealthy women-who-hobby-shop whose homes she cleans. Or I give her the gift of a half dozen hours over a week of talking with her on phone, when I seriously, seriously hate talking on the phone if it isn't work related, but she's going through something, and I listen to her, huge smart phone mashed all up in my ear. Or herbs she's been thinking of trying but hasn't made the jump with, or some weird granolahead food she's tried at my house and actually liked and so I get her the special vinegar, or vanilla almond milk, or dandelion leaves so she can make green smoothies.

But the truth of the holidays for me is being with my fuzzy guys, having the space and time and freedom to just hang out together for long stretches of days. Of looking deep and long into the magic that is Baby Malcolm's chocolate lips. Of inhaling the hay and sun scent of Baby Wallace's fiery fur and have him sniff me back while purring the sonic rumble of heavy breathing that shows his weaselly ecstasy. Of spending an hour in the dawn light, drifting in and out of sleep, Emmaline doing as she's done since she was a four-month old kitten, laying directly on top of my face like a balaklava, paws wrapped around my neck, leaving me a single nostril to myself with which to happily take in air. Of jumping back into bed after turning the heat up a bit and having Baby Wallace settle onto the top of my head like a toasty toque, complete with paw-shaped earmuffs. Of dancing in my living room, having Malcolm squeeeek so that I pick his 19lbs. of love up and he crawls up out of my arms and onto my right shoulder, riding it like a carousel pony as I dip and twirl and shake my bootay. Of laying on the living room floor with a big plate of thanksgiving takeout, joyfully joining in the slurps, prrps, and arwarwarw that is the fang-toothy consumption of ham and turkey and sugary dessert cream topping. 

So the real reveal is that I love the holidays, so look forward to the love and joy and giving that is life with my core tribe, so enjoy the sharing of food and love and Yes. I give the gift of toasty and foodies and Yes. They give the gift toasty and their Themness and Yes. And Life is good . . .

I just want folks to go off and do their holiday thing and leave me and the fuzzballs to do ours. Not to give me pity eyes when they hear that I'm spending the holidays with the kitties, or to do their best to try and talk me into thanksgiving at their house with their family and the in-laws or with a group of single people who have nowhere else to go. Maybe this year I can answer that yes, it was a lovely holiday spent with my loved ones, and they'll leave it at that and just smile.

I'm good: I'm with my family. I have someplace to be: in the center of a kitty purr-rumbly pile-on snack-fest.

So happy thanksgiving, ya'll, from the center of the Yes that is my living, to the center of Yes that is yours . . .

 

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Dammed

(and because they haven't said howdy to you folks in a while, gratuitous weasel pics at the end of this post!)

I had an epiphany on the acupuncturist's table Friday afternoon that writing is what this being has used and still needs to keep flow occurring in heart and mind, saw so utterly clearly that in this personality, writing is medicinal, and that without it, the sh*t, the waste, the No tends to build up inside, creating blockages - much like an unwashed cut is more likely to become infected.

And continuing with that metaphor, what's really occurring is an overhaul of the immune system than powers this body-mind-heart. Instead of turning to pharmaceuticals to create a sensation of health, the focus has been moved to diet, exercise, content of actions and duties that make up the daily life.

Okay, it's not just metaphor, that's what's really happening. Instead of energy being spent on formulating a career - public health, holistic or otherwise - or maintaining a blog based on keeping readers engaged, or maintaining relationships to cultivate friendships or soulmates or mentors or mentees - energy is building up inside, not in height, but in depth. Energy that normally would be extending outward to keep all sorts of life components going, is being used to clear the decks of No down to the wood grain. 

And yet there is no more big push of burning, no more dramatic Torch This Muthaf*cker to The Ground. None of it matters. Whatever. And yet if presented with the choice between more pain or less pain, I choose less pain. And yet when I see an opportunity to choose more pain that leads to less pain in a fraction of the time, I'm still taking it, much like during the time of big torching. 

Like acupuncture. Really good, authentic acupuncture. The kind that hurts in a way that causes shrieking, deep inside the body and mind. Especially when combined with Tui Na, which is a kind of oriental/chinese medicine massage which is not unlike having muscle fiber and fascia ripped apart, which is probably not far off from what actually happens. The day after treatment, there are real bruises, and it hurts to touch even the skin, like after a car accident, or a bad beating.

And yet, the healing occurring in body and mind in its wake is astounding. Yoga hurts, too. And between the two - acupuncture and yoga - my body is becoming free again. 

I'm still fat. Still in pain. But where this body is is light years from where it was even six months ago. And there is a spaciousness in the mind that allows even thorny predicaments to fall away like a sigh. 

How do you free yourself? It really is about just saying no to drama. That's such a buzzword - drama. But it is a real symptom of western living. And you really can opt out of it. How do you opt out? Just say no.

Why don't you just say no to drama? Is it because there is some belief inside of you that says you're suppose to deal with it, or accept it, or not walk away, or that you have to because it's a boss or neighbor or child or mate or friend, and this is how a good person is with these sorts of people?

Why do you have to not walk away from these people, either as a one-way walk away or simply a walk-away in the moment? Is it because you believe these people give you, provide you with something - a physical or emotional or mental resource - that you can't live without?

But is this true? Do you really need what they offer, or is that you keep waiting for them to cough up their end of the bargain but they never do, or never to the degree they've promised or you expected? Or is the resource just another one of western culture's shell games, delusions? Like 99% of Face*book or country clubs or hobbies or the "food" in grocery stores or the "medicine" doled out in doctor's offices?

And what is walking away? It's genuinely saying adios mutherf*cker, sure, but at its simplest it's saying No Thank You, and watching as the other person finally, finally understands that they won't be receiving what they're demanding, and they get bored or peeved or whatever and they wander off to find someone else, someone who wants to do the drama dance in the same twitchy, frenetic, howling way they want to, too. Or in stilettos, or with this season's fashions, or in full face makeup, or while chanting the right tone of Om.

And does this mean that we have to be selfish assholes who refuse to help anyone else? Or does it mean that, in the moment, we have to listen to the energy, and then follow what it says, be it move closer or move away, regardless of what mores or rules or shoulds are squeezing our minds and hearts? 

Can you see the commonality, the through-line in this post? Can you hold the seeming dichotomy up to the light of your brilliant beam of discernment and see the truth in that ray of Yes?

Can you see how it changes your living forever? Can you see it's the only tool of enlightenment you really need? Can you see how this world would utterly transform if we all just started walking away from the buttheads, just collectively said No Thanks?

You want to change the world? Then do it in a way that you absolutely can do today, most likely in the next few minutes. Just say No Thanks to a butthead. Just opt out of someone's screeching drama. Just take a deep breath and allow yourself to put down that action you're pushing yourself to engage in because you think you should, or because you're afraid you'll miss out on something.

Absolutely do what Life is beaming Yes at you around. Push through the pain if you know it's about breaking through scar tissue. But seriously, it really is okay to just say no to a bad time.

How do you tell the difference? I have great faith in you. You'll figure it out . . . 

Holocaust, Group By Group

All I could think about as I read this list is Emmaline's sweet face as she feels the sun on her face, whiskers moving gently in the breeze:

just in 2009, the following bird populations were poisoned and killed by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, using taxpayer dollars:

(Listed as "Intentional" and "Killed / Euthanized")

Brown-headed cowbirds: 1,046,109
European Starlings: 1,259,714
Red-winged blackbirds: 965,889
Canadian geese: 24,519
Grackles: 93,210
Pigeons: 96,297

...plus tens of thousands of crows, doves, ducks, falcons, finches, gulls, hawks, herons, owls, ravens, sparrows, swallows, swans, turkeys, vultures and woodpeckers, among other animals.

The chart even shows that the USDA "unintentionally" euthanized one Bald Eagle.

Also murdered in 2009 by the USDA are victims of other species:

27,000 beavers, 1700 bobcats, 81,000 coyotes, 2,000 gray foxes, 336 mountain lions, 1900 woodchucks, 130 porcupines, 12,000 raccoons, 20,000 squirrels, 30,000 wild pigs, 478 wolves.

See the list yourself at: http://www.naturalnews.com/files/US...



Learn more: http://www.naturalnews.com/031084_bird_deaths_holocaust.html#ixzz1CMWknAlg

How will we live without our furry, feathered, scaled, fronded, leafy, petaled brothers and sisters?

Thanks C4Chaos for the link.

The Wilmington Fur Ball!

For the third year in a row, I'll be doing readings for the lovely swanky folks that attend fabulous black tie event The Wilmington Fur Ball. The first year I got a call to work it, The Glorious Hoon has just shed his mortal coil, and in his honor, when they asked me how much I'd charge to do readings for the evening, I said: let it be a gift from the Hoon and I. And each year, we give another gift. Because the way I look at it, the more cash we raise for the animals, the more Yes we get to keep meowing and barking and screeching and singing in the world. And lord knows more Yes in fuzzy form is a beautiful thing.

If you're local and get a chance, come join us for dancing and a pet fun stuff auction and a painting dog and all the sushi you can eat and me (I'll be that chick off to the right of the festivities, sitting with the folks in their sparkling finery, one by one, as they come to hear a little Psychic Whatnot.) If you're not local, or can't come, take a few minutes to google for your local shelter, and send them a few bucks. A great one in our area is: The Pender County Humane Society.  Even $10 is a huge help. (With the economy all wonky, and the humans scared and suffering, the animals need to have their paw held even more . . . )

 

Hearth Tribe

I did three sessions yesterday. For the phone sessions, Emmaline and Jacinta hung out with me on the couch. As I talked with the folks, I held my face up to the sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Ever so often, one of the sweet kitties would nuzzle me, roll over so I could rub the talisman of Yes that is their silky belly fur, or they'd lick my fingers, reminding me I'm here, in my physical body, even as I traveled all over the place in my mind and heart and energybody as I read energy for the nice peoples. 

For the in-person session, it's someone Malcolm is madly in love with. When she visits, he always comes out and gets right up in her face, peering into her eyes with the most innocent expression of wonder. And when we do the energywork and she's laying on the table, he hops up and lays on her chest or belly. Yesterday, though, it was Emmaline who purred her Yes into the client's second chakra. And as I did the energywork, Emmaline would open her eyes, make that soundless small squeak of 'Yes' that is more of a flutter of her tiny lips, give me the sparkly love eyes look, and go back to blissful purring into the chakra.

I woke up this morning right before dawn. Because I turn the heat down to 60 at night, it's chilly. This morning, snuggled under kitties and covers, I felt toasty, except for my neck. No sooner than I had the thought, I felt a kitty rise up, walk delicately amongst the others, and maneuver back and forth for a moment before settling in at the most perfect angle around my neck and head. Furry and warm against my bare skin, nestled in my hair. Perfect. Sweet Emmaline . . .

I finally woke for good around 8 am, which is sleeping in super super late for me, but there was no push to get up. Instead I just lay there, all relaxed as one by one the kitties came around, doing their morning thing: 

Jacinta was purring, the loudest purr in our land. She purrs like a trucker, like a feline Harley Davidson, like ocean waves pounding the sand. She crawled over to tuck herself under my right armpit, where she nursed the cotton of my sleepwear as she has her entire life, since she came to live with me when she was an undernourished 6-month old. I'm used to the wet patch her sweet slobber will leave on the sleeve. I don't mind. I smooched her big ole head again and again. And the sound of trucker purrs filled the room.

Baby Wallace was staring out the window at the wee morning activities of things feathered or bushy tailed. But when he heard me stir, he waited til Jacinta had found a good groove, then walked right over to do his morning inspection of my breath. Deep, long sniffs of inquiry. He always squeaks, a single high pitched note that only Baby Wallace can make, (I'm never sure if it's alarm or feline for "a-ok"), then alternately lifts and bows his head so I can more easily rub his beautiful fiery puma face, run my fingers along his spine for a little massage, lightly stroke the enormous silken triangular amphitheaters that are his ears. This morning we did all this in slow-mo, til he felt satiated and wandered back to the window.

Emmaline then climbed me like I was a small hillock. She settled on the summit of my chest, peering into my eyes, silently giving me love looks. I rubbed her back and stroked her tiny face, telling her what a good girl she is, how beautiful, so sweet, so very sweet, "yes, yes, yes . . ." I say over and over.

Baby Malcolm, the tabby-stripey behemoth that he has grown into, circled around in and between the others. Most mornings he dives right into the preliminaries of Food Bowl Dominance Order, chasing kitties back and forth around the bed, then remembers that I give good rubbinz, comes for a scratch, then goes fuzzily postal on Baby Wallace, who goes postal right back, all paw smacks and head bites. But this morning, Malcolm was calm, sweet, chill. He tucked up on my left side, small snores and an occasional long squeak that sounded like "ahhhhhhhhhh". He knows when I finally settle in at the computer to answer emails, he'll claim my lap as his toasty chaise lounge. He can be coolio. Because the vibe is mellow, and food and more snuggles are most definitely on his horizon . . .  

I'm with my tribe. We sleep together, eat together. We watch tv together, stare out the window at the wind and birds and sky together. We do healing sessions for the nice peoples together.

If you would have asked me ten years ago if this would be enough, this life with kitties would be enough, I would have laughed. But Life has a way of knowing exactly what we need. I'm so taken care of. I'm so loved.

I'm so grateful for the days and hours and minutes, every second I have with my fuzzy tribe. And Life, if you grant us more, we humbly thank you, and offer up our Yes to you, to continue to use as you see fit . . . 

Thank you Life, for this morning, of fuzzy love and snuggles, of toasty warmth, and squeaky Yes . . . 

Thank you for our lives . . . 

Master of the Snuggle, Lord of the Headlock

Hello. It is Malcolm. I am here.

Yes. There is dastardly in my beingness. But I am Malcolm. My karma comes with fuzziness and fangs and tough whiskery love. I am at peace with the profundity of my Weaseliness. I am One with The Dastardly in my soul.

 

What alpha kitty doesn't like to get out there and kick a little fur? Bite heads and rumble fuzzily, show some dominance at the litter box, then retreat to the food bowl to recount tales of growly battle, followed by a trip to Snoozeville?

But have you factored in my sweet side? My sweet side is so very sweet. 

Why look. Can you see them?

 

Why Yes. It is my Chocolate Lips. For Baby Emmaline to smooch. And to tickle Katmama's fingers with when I wash her hands with my scratchy tongue of Yes.

Yes. I am dastardly. But my Chocolate Lips give me away. I am also Malcolm, King of The Snuggles. And I wish to climb upon your head while you snooze, to purr my Yes into your ear, so that you too will be at one with your soul.

Unhappy Endings

Flu-like symptoms for over a week now. Blisters coming and going on my palms, like mutant eczema. All of the cleansing apparatuses of a physical body in high gear. Funky, smelly, ick. Emotional cleansing too. Embarrassing emotional cleansing.

I actually screamed and shook not one but two cats last night. Sure there was a serious, serious willful poop malfunction involved in one, and in the other, a dumped over water glass inches away from an electrical cord hooked up to my computer, but still. It scared the crap out of everyone. And then I spent a half hour dealing with the demon possession of hatred I felt. And then an hour dealing with the shame. But when I faced them all again, with their enormous, frightened eyes, I lay down beside each one in turn, and apologized. And of course they forgave me, licked my cheek, purred, gave me the sparkly eyed love look, then slept on top of me all night en masse, like a multi-feline blanket.

I needed them. It was a rough night. Not physically - I actually had very little physical pain, which was a relief after the past few weeks. But the dreams were intense, woke me three times with energy that lit me up. I don't remember the first one, but the last two? Whoaaaaaaaaaaa.

Around midnight, I woke up with my body, mind, heart lit up with love. Actually, not love, but Love. That Big Love so rarely felt with another human being in a romantic setting, that when it occurs our current culture calls it "soulmate". Wow. I lay there in the dark, seconds away from how he smiled at me, the touch of his skin. The sound of rain clicked on the windows, the torrential downpour that has been constant here on the coast for the past few days. Kitties felt me wake and prrrped, snuggled in more deeply. Wow. Feelings of such Yes, such love, safety. Wow. I drifted back to sleep.

The dream continued, right where it left off.

And slowly began to turn. Into a nightmare. Not a scary nightmare. A sad one. So sad. From soulmate love to merely human love. Then no love at all. I woke up in a kind of shock. And as I lay there in the dark, I heard:

"All of your stories have unhappy endings."

Whoa. Whoaaaaa. Do they? And slowly I began to wind my way backward through all of the friends, lovers, jobs, homes, family, projects, everything, even the master's degree in the assured career. And saw yes, it's true.

I didn't feel any blame toward the people involved or victimy pain at my plight or righteous anger at fate. None of that. Just a quiet acknowledgment that my life has been hope/ dream/ want followed by opportunity/ synchronicity/ magic  followed by hard work/ creativity/ risk taking followed by pain/failure/ending. I couldn't recall a single thing that didn't fit with that.

I didn't know what to do with it, that information, that angle on the truth of my living. Nothing more came. Just that.

Jacinta was sleeping, pressed against my right shoulder. I turned and with my left armed circled her, tucked my hand under her, cradling her face, laying my head on her body, most of my weight supported by my pillow. Usually she didn't like to be touched while she slept. But last night she purred so loud it reverberated through me. And didn't stop. I fell back asleep like that, to the sound of loud rumbling feline Yes.

And woke relaxed. Okay. As if something had lifted. A little space. A little bit of moving room in my consciousness. I got up, made green smoothies, a gallon's worth, enough to last through work, fed kitties, showered, answered emails, got ready to go to work in Hiveworld, another day in Hiveworld.

And I realize: work is the place right now that  solidly, consistantly reminds me Who I Am. When I'm plugged in, being of service to folks who are struggling in their own Battle with No, my own feelings of funk fades. Whether it's with the holistic work or the Hiveworld work, it's the same energy: that vibrant flow of Yes that somehow feels effortless and vital and worth showing up for every single time.

It's okay that I don't have answers to the cleansings that are occurring, either my own or the folks I deal with. That my life has been filled with unhappy endings, or that the folks I'm working with are dealing with unhappy endings of their own. Maybe a few folks are genuinely stopping their stories altogether, but I don't see anymore how we have a choice in that. Either Life stops our story or it doesn't. All we can do is show up to what is showing up in our living. Face it. Do what needs to be done. Even if that action is simply to release the whole pile of goo as if it didn't even exist. 

Ultimately, none of it exists, but if there is a way to force this fact of non-existence into a solid knowingness of it, I certainly don't know how. I only know how to do the next thing, and right now, it's dealing with the stories that cause me and others to embrace toxic things and not let them go. We're all struggling to change our stories, to move them into tales of financial security, meaningful work, vibrant health, Big Love with family, friends, lovers. And that means less Toxic. And maybe Waking Up can happen with our arms full of Toxic, but I doubt it. In my experience, we let things go, one by one, the Toxic and the Love.

Right now, I deal with the Toxic. And I'm grateful for it. Both the experience of how it came to be be, and the experience of sheer freedom as it exits.

Onward. Further. What else to do with a life?

Weaselville Idol

Baby Wallace has decided he wants to be a pop star. How can I deny Baby Wallace anything he wants?

Here he practices for his audition doing his take on "Pretty In Pink", that delightful Psychedelic Furs hit from the 80s:

Emmaline joins in as his backup singer, although Baby Wallace has stated firmly that she will not be allowed to accompany him into the audition room. Emmaline says we'll see about that, Mr. Pinkypants.

And then The Call of The Nap overtakes her and she's out, snoozing and dreaming of feline fame where canine assisstants bring her feathered snacks in bed and she tells the paparazzi: Talk To The Paw. 

Jacinta says: f*cking kids and their f*cking noise. You little bastids and yer caterwauling make me wanna . . . zzzzz.

 . . . f*cking kids . . .  zzzzz . . .  gimme snack . . . zzzz . . . drool . . . twitch . . .  

Malcolm says: Who needs fame when you got all this lovinz so much lovinz and dinner is so purrdeliciouso?