It's a lot like life

This is how this week feels. I did stuff. I ate stuff. I said some stuff. Chloe is sick, Sophie is bored, the cats are flea'd, and MathMan and Nate are baseballed.

Summer, as determined by human activities and not the calendar, is here and it's the first one since 2009 in which I won't be home with the rest of the gang. It's going to be a little strange. Good strange, as long as they don't turn the house into something fit to be featured on Hoarders.

I've banned their idea for creating a backyard demolition derby track and the scheme for the 24/7 yard sale. They can call me all the names they like. I'm not budging on these issues.

Let's just say I'll be satisfied if they're generally awake before 2pm and we don't get a visit from the PoPo, the Health Department or the Department of Family Services.

Trending! Wives. Not because we're aces at putting our needs last, but because we're THE hot book title. The Soldier's Wife. The Sniper's Wife. The Fireman's Wife. The Diplomat's Wife. The Paris Wife. The Shoemaker's Wife. The Math Teacher's Wife. Well, okay, not yet. But it could happen.

Some bits that have been lying around in my drafts waiting for a chance to embarrass themselves. Quotes heard around the house...

"You have now reached Most Favored Child status. The other two can just suck it."

"I couldn't sleep. I was buried under sixty pounds of, um.......cat. Did you hear that, sick parent? C-A-T."

"I did too take a shower.....well, I mean, I was going to take a shower......it doesn't matter, I swam yesterday."

"I figured 'why dirty a bowl?' I can eat the sherbet from this container just as easily. And look how I can balance it here on my front porch."

"You have to be pretty bored to think that taking a shower should be considered 'something to do.'"

And a bonus vignette which is a fancy word for something......

"Oh my god, you keep delivering the best lines that I can't blog because the context would be either too weird, too obscure or too embarrassing to explain."

He tossed me a glance over his shoulder.  "You're a writer. You'll figure it out."

What a wicked thing to say.

Nevertheless, he's right. Probably. But how can I set up the joke that ends with the punchline "Breast milk makes me gassy?"

Has summer started for you? What does that mean anyway? 

Bring out your dead

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I've heard of Rat Week. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound like anything I'd willingly take part in. It is, apparently, a college thing, but it's something I missed during my days of big hair and scrunched socks. I was busy studying alone in my dorm room and volunteering for various church-related charities.

This week, however, has given me a taste. Okay, perhaps that's not the phrase I want to use here because this hasn't been Rat Week. It's been Mouse Week.

It started over the weekend when I finally gave up waiting for MathMan to put out the mouse bait and did it myself. Hey - you over there wondering why I was waiting for the big, strong man to poison the itty bitty mice - I was waiting for him to do it because when I bought the stuff, he said he would take care of it. Then the waiting began. He's a busy man. This is our system. If I mention it, he gets huffy and if I jump in and do it myself, he gets huffy. Meanwhile, I continue to get a fright whenever I go into the garage because a bunch of  mice are holding a key party in the trashcan next to the door.

After what seemed like an acceptable amount of time in marital gridlock, I chose action. I put the bait out knowing that if I had to, I could apologize later. The fact that I was stepping out of the shower when I mentioned my betrayal probably had nothing to do with MathMan's insouciant response. He didn't even blink as he said, "That's fine.........."

I warned the cats to stay away from any mice who migrated into the house because they could be snacks bearing a deadly dose of poison.

The cats, being cats, didn't listen. Tuesday I traipsed through a darkened hallway in my barefeet and stepped on a dead mouse. After I finished screaming, I scooped up the carcass bearing a few bite marks and disposed of it. I congratulated the cats en masse then retired to my bedroom where I showered and had a lie down.

On Wednesday, it was brought to my attention that "we" had a dead mouse in the garage. Funnily enough, none of those assholes I live with picked up said mouse and disposed of it. So last night, I gathered up my courage, donned some thick gardening gloves and a pair of safety goggles and descended the garage steps.

I'm not sure why I thought the safety goggles were necessary, but it turns out I could have used one of those white masks to keep the germs out.

There wasn't one mouse. There were five. I swept the first one into the dustpan while trying to look away. I apologized to the poor mouse and with a little salute slid him into the plastic bag I had with me. The next mouse; the same thing.

Then I eyeballed the third mouse. It was by far the largest. It was going to take me a minute to recover and carry on with this clean up so while I tried to clear my head, I swept the garage floor. I swept out the corners near the outside doors, under the lawnmower and behind the bicycles. I moved the trash and recycling and swept out from behind them.

Let me just say that that garage floor is clean.

Finally, I forced myself to get back to the task. On my approach to the big, quite grizzled looking mouse carcass, I noticed another, much smaller body by the workbench.

A baby mouse. I'd killed a baby mouse.

I went to it and apologized in my high squeaky voice, the voice normally reserved for cats, puppies, and deer on the side of the road.

I am so so sorry.

Well, what did I think was going to happen when I put out the poison? Poison doesn't discriminate, you murderer.

I took the broom and began to sweep the poor little thing into the Dustpan of Doom. The mouse had other ideas.

While I leaped back and screamed, it started to flop around with its lower body inert. It made a valiant effort and turned itself over. Once it got its momentum, it rolled some more. That mouse was doing sideways somersaults in my direction!

I clutched the broom and dustpan like talismans and stepped back, just barely avoiding the big, dead mouse.

My shoulders slumped as I considered what to do next. The baby mouse stopped flopping around and stretched out one tiny, fingered paw in my direction as if to say "I hope you're happy now, Lady! May you never forget this moment."

Yeah, I'm going to be seeing that in my dreams for a long, long time.

I asked the garage what Karma would deliver to me in retribution.

Karma, that wretch, didn't wait long to answer.

I took a deep breath and braced to clean up what had grown into a rat in my mind. As I swept it into the pan, it turned over. Maggots cascaded from its head. I choked back the... well, you can imagine.

The rat dispatched to the garbage bag, I decided to give the baby mouse a little reprieve while I collected the mouse I noticed next to the furnace. That went well enough if you don't mind the smell of death. Me? I'm not a fan.

Finally I had to put the baby out of its misery. By which I mean I swept him into the pan and slid him as gently as possible into the plastic bag and then put that bag into the garbage bag and tied it up and tried not to think of anything especiallythemovementsandtinysoundscomingfromthebag.

A green ribbon hung perversely from a small opening in the top of the garbage bag. I left it there.

Feeling silly for putting them on in the first place, I stashed the safety goggles in their drawer.  Then, while I tugged off the gloves, I took one last glance around the garage and shivered.

So this is death. Time for another shower and a lie down.

Treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough

When my first paycheck arrived, the last vestiges of the clouds of despair parted, a ray of sunlight fell upon the quaint paper check* and the sweet voices of faeries sang an ancient ballad of a bank account not overdrawn.

Aside from the paycheck, the ability to be among bipeds who make great conversationalists and a general sense of being a productive human being**, this job puts a major crimp in my life. No time to read blogs, surf the internet, or work on my Used Dental Floss of the Stars collection.

That's not to say I'm not grateful. I'm ever so. Every time I answered the phone yesterday with "Good (morning/afternoon), (name of the organization), this is Lisa." I felt gratitude for being able to do one of the things I do best - greet people then hand them off. And I don't even have to wear a blue vest to do it.

I'm reminded at this moment that you can't just greet newborns or cats and then hand them off.

"Hello, Baby, this is Lisa, how can your daddy help you?" or "Hi, kitty! You're so cute! Now let's find someone to scoop that litter......"

I'm in limbo because I've been filling in for the receptionist since last Monday so my real job hasn't really began. I've spent so little time at my desk that it's week three and I haven't set my own voicemail or spilled anything on my keyboard. A good start in my experience!

Oh, and before I forget - if you want to know what really matters to a company's customers or an organization's members, answer the phones for a week. There's much to learn.

So while I try to gather what little wits I had about me, I hope you know that I'm missing reading those of you who blog. My rss feed reader got so full, it's going to be on an episode of Hoarders. Google is threatening to expose my search history to my mother if I don't clean out my email. 

This doesn't mean I don't care. It only means that while I'm in the probationary period of this job, I don't plan to get pinched surfing the internet during work hours.

Until I'm a little less consumed, I hope you'll accept my apologies and know that as I'm toiling away at the multi-line phone, I remember how much you all kept me company while I was home being kneaded by cats.

Speaking of - the cats had a fur-shedding row the other day over the proper spelling of the word whoa. Some were dead certain it's spelled w-h-o-a and two others insisted on the spelling w-o-a-h. Thankfully, order was restored before the police showed up at the house. When I got home, I tried to get to the origins of the kerfluffle but no one was meowing. Finally, I took my favorite kitty, the one who isn't so bright, aside and got some answers as she licked at the Mariner's Catch pate I used to lure her into conversation.

"Why do you guys need to use the word whoa anyway?" I asked, my voice like cream.

Her eyes shifted, searching out bewhiskered spies. "It was just a conversation," she said between tiny bites.

Unsatisfied, I pressed her. "Ivy, does it have anything to do with the photos of the horses I found on the google history?"

She swallowed audibly then daintily licked her lips. "Horses?"  Her breath smelled of fishy parts.

I know faux ignorance when I see it. "Ivela, spill or I won't let you sleep in Sophie's room."

She blinked. I could tell she was thinking it over. Her Pillow Pet rests at the foot of Sophie's bed and she does not like to sleep without it.

"It's not a horse. It's only a very large dog......"



*Can't wait for the direct deposit to kick in!
**Which is really nonsense because keeping house and raising kids is productivity.

This is not a nap, this is a strategy session

A golden oldie

Before the year winds down and you become bleary eyed from reading all the year end lists, I want to make special mention of a team of individuals who help make this blog what it is.

I'd be nothing without my pussies.

The cats, who began their long run on my old blog PoliTits, were then dubbed The Pussies for Peace because they were extremely vocal advocates for ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. You may have missed their most recent press release in which they took great pleasure in recapping their presence in the vanguard of peace protests that would eventually lead to a change in public opinion and ultimately the end of the war in Iraq. It is an unparalleled triumph for them only dampened by the ongoing war in Afghanistan.

As they mentioned in the official statement, they maintained their staunch oppositional activities toward the violence and their advocacy for a more peaceful world. In recent months, they have shifted their activities to focus on the biggest threat to peace. Income inequality.

In between lying around the house licking themselves, throwing up hairballs, fighting over the catnip mouse and stalking the sunny spots on the carpet, they managed to sponsor several successful fundraisers to help feed and keep warm the Occupy movement.

As they grow older, they find that it's harder for them to get out to join the protests, preferring instead to occupy their food bowl and brainstorm ways to help from the foot of our bed.

To wit:  The staging of the First Annual Pussies for Peace and Income Equality A Christmas Carol. Tickets for all three shows plus matinees sold out in record time. Since I was busy wallowing in my own crapulence of depression and job searches, Sophie took over the directorial and production duties. I must hand it to her for helping the felines produce such a successful event because it truly was herding cats. The casting alone took an unprecedented two weeks. The cat who eventually won the role of Ebenezer Scrooge did a superb job even with the debacle in the second show. He proved once and for all that a long pause to sniff Bob Cratchett's butt in the coal scene would slow the show's pace requiring a speed through of the act with the Ghost of Christmas past.

The reviews were mostly positive.

The PfP&IE also produced a comedy spectacular along the lines of Saturday Night Live Sketches including the musical guests Cat Power, the Pussycat Dolls and Yussef Islam (formerly known as Cat Stevens).

The skit receiving the most laughs was a take-off of the Republican Presidential Candidate debates. With only five cats now in the fold, we had enough players to cover Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul, Michele Bachmann, and Rick Perry. It all worked out in the end. By the time the show was staged, Herman Cain had dropped out of the race with his infamous Pokemon Movie quote and no one could be badgered into playing Rick Santorum anyway. These cats know the score. That whole gay sex leads to man on dog sex has put them off Santorum forever.

Other fundraisers are being planned. They include a pet treat bake sale, a bikini car wash, a Spring Fling, and the opening of a Zazzle shop with all proceeds going to support the work of the Occupy movement. (Less expenses such as cases of Fancy Feast, caviar, and several tons of litter.)

I'd be remiss if I didn't thank the Pussies for all their work and support. And for providing me with so many hours of companionship, forced or otherwise. (They know they love it when I talk in that high voice and kiss their cheeks.) The cleaning up of cat yak and the scooping of their leavings is a small price to pay for the good works they do on all our behalf.

12 Signs You Have Too Many Cats

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1. You realize that you've been referring to scooping the litter box as panning for gold. For a while.

2. You find hissing a perfectly appropriate response to people who annoy you.

3. You call those little afternoon naps naps.

4. Maybe you drank from the toilet this morning, you're not telling.

5. Foreplay involves kneading your partner's thighs with your claws, gentle bites and purring. Lots and lots of purring.

6. You don't care if the salmon skin has been at the bottom of the trash can since yesterday's dinner.

7. Hang on, I have to scratch.

8. There's something caught in your throat and the only way to dislodge it is to get on your haunches and painfully hork it into one of your partner's best shoes.

9. When watching Tom and Jerry, you root for Tom.

10. It's not licking. It's grooming.

11. The clockwork mouse is a total bore but:

12. That catnip ball? Yeah.................roll that thing my way.

Whipped

Kitty Noir. I sink deeper. I'm already referring to him as my Familiar. I'm going through the boxes of long-stored baby stuff hunting for the Snugli so I can carry him when I mow. I might have referred to myself as Mommy in context to him. I've given him worm medicine and looked carefully between his legs because, yes, I did once name a cat Phoebe only to discover that his love for me was less than pure.

For now, I'm calling him Kitty Noir because listening to NPR and loving cats go hand in hand like butt sniffing and hissing. Yeah, there's a lot of that going on. We're working on proper etiquette. And let me tell ya, Kitty Noir is not the problem. Fiona's hisser is cranked passed eleven. You can take the girl out of the ditch, but you can't take the feral out of the girl.

Thanks to Nan for posting the Free Kitten ad on her workplace's website. Nan is here in Atlanta, but I meant it when I wrote that I'll bring this cat to you. I mean, hell, people, it's not like I have a job or anything. I can pretend it's a vacation without the kids fighting in the backseat. Hey, I could do commute chat with the kitty!

See. I need this cat gone. I so need this cat gone that I'm willing to trade him for a five year old boy. And the only thing I need less than another cat is another kid.

I understand if you can't take this cat, but if you're still here through all this hectoring, then may I suggest that you at least make a tiny donation to help me pay for his fixing and shots. If I'm going to be owned by this cat, then I can at least be responsibly owned.

Or, share this info with your friends, family, acquaintances and associated crazy cat people. Male cat, medium length hair, approximately 8 weeks old, no shots (yet), not neutered (yet).

Honestly, you guys know that I can't even watch those Arms of the Angels commercials where they show the abandoned and abuse animals, right? I turn the channel because even with my back to them, my eyes brim with tears. I'm a complete sap. Like Laura said in comments - I want to scoop them all up in a basket and keep them safe. Rainbows optional.

Help me.

Come back tomorrow for a pussy free post. Well, unless, of course, I decide to publish the draft I've written about why I think women like Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann get media attention.

Until then, purrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. And thank you.