Adventures with Geannii

  The Kitten Chronicles: How I Accidentally Became a Cat Landlord We have two darling little kittens — outdoor cats, feral cats, “don’t touch me, human” cats. Their older brothers survived last winter outside like tiny Viking warriors, so I figured these two would be fine. But I still bought them a heated cat house. A whole tiny Airbnb with a warming pad specifically designed for feral cats. Because apparently I’m running a luxury resort for animals who won’t even let me pet them. One morning I was playing with them through the glass window — my version of “interactive cat parenting.” Jimin looked over his shoulder, froze, and bolted. I stepped outside to see what scared him. Mama cat screamed — a sound that could summon demons — and she was standing over little Jimin’s body. No life left in him. A strange feral male cat stood there like he owned the place, challenging me. I grabbed a shovel and ran him off like a furious pioneer woman defending her homestead.. Well. “I am NOT havi...

  True Story of Financial Delusion and Accidental Upgrading Last year, on the way to Disneyland—back when my bank account was still breathing normally and not whispering its final prayers—I casually mentioned to Rob, “I need a new laptop.” Just a simple comment. A passing thought. A gentle breeze of an idea. Fast‑forward to December. The Month of Doom. Insurance due. Taxes due. Christmas shopping. My budget wasn’t just tight—it was gasping, clutching its chest like it had just run a marathon uphill in flip‑flops. Every time I swiped my Discover card, I swear I smelled smoke. The friction alone could’ve powered a small generator. Then Rob—sweet, helpful, financially dangerous Rob—asked: “Want to go look at laptops?” I said yes. But inside? Inside I was screaming NOOOOOO, sliding down a wall in slow motion like a dramatic soap‑opera heroine. I told myself, I’ll just look. I’ll find the one I want, and when my bank balance is no longer on life support, I’ll come back for it. Sure...

  I rang in the new year… asleep in my own bed. My own little bed. I’ve been in so many different beds lately — BY MYSELF, thank you, get your mind out of the gutter — that waking up in my own felt like a luxury resort. Christmas round two happened in Amarillo with Montana and Robin, Dec. 27–30. I basically live out of my car or so it seems. Then at 6:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day, I was back on the road, loaded up and truckin’ like a one‑woman Smokey and the Bandit reboot. Destination: Brandy’s house. Mission: Christmas, Part Three. When I arrived, the boys helped me unload the car. And by “helped,” They took in three arm loads, while I rolled in my one little carry one.  By the time we finished, it looked like I was moving in permanently. I half expected Brandy to hand me a lease agreement. Act I: Michael’s Hershey Kiss Michael opened his giant Hershey Kiss — a practical joke from me. He didn’t ask for one; he simply wondered aloud if they still make them. Well, yes they do, and...

                                                         🎄 Christmas Day on the Pontoon Christmas at home this year… what a concept. I was not thrilled. No big adventure, not even a tiny one. I’m not afraid of flying — I’m afraid of flying on small planes that need repairs “signed off on” instead of actually fixed. (That blog is below. Buckle up.) I put the tree up in October, stockings hung, the whole house looking like a Hallmark movie… but no adventure in sight. My smoked turkey was thawed, gifts wrapped, stockings filled, cards sent — and still nothing planned for Christmas Day. I even invited Marvin and his new bride Rhonda over for dinner. They had “better plans.” Well thanks a lot. At least pretend to invite me. They did not. Then Monday rolls around and Marvin calls: “Plans changed. Wanna bring that Christmas dinner on the pontoon? It’...

 Last year, JoDee and I decided to fly to Colorado for Christmas with our siblings. Sounds simple, right? A sweet little holiday getaway? No. No, it was not. It was an episode of Survivor: Holiday Travel Edition, and we were the unwilling contestants. I didn’t realize Tulsa wasn’t an international airport until we boarded what was basically a flying shoebox — maybe 50 passengers total, two seats on each side, and the kind of plane where you can feel everyone breathe. But hey, we made it to Denver just fine. Then the real fun began. We waited. And waited. And waited some more for our connecting flight — the one that “barely made it in” because of mechanical problems. Comforting. Truly. And then, as if the universe wanted to test our commitment to Christmas spirit, they boarded us onto a 15‑seater. Fifteen. I’ve seen minivans with more structural integrity. We’re buckled in when the announcement comes: They need a mechanic to sign off on the problem. Sign off? SIGN OFF? How about… f...