What Your Pets Do Behind Your Back

         Do you ever wonder that your pets get up to when you’re away from home?

I have my suspicions.

My cat, Tango, is a secretive little creature, as are most cats.  However, mine is not only secretive but, I think, also possessed by demons.

Oh, she’s good at pretending to be a docile little house cat, but lately, upon returning home from work, I’ve noticed cigarette burns in the upholstery, and I don’t smoke in the living room.  There are also rolling papers and catnip scattered everywhere, and the water and food dishes are both empty.  Add to that the paw prints of varying sizes all over the handle on the refrigerator door, and it doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to put it all together.

She has parties with what appears to be (if detritus is any indication) about sixty other cats!

Observing my look of irritation upon my arrival in the den of iniquity that used to be my home, she puts on her most innocent expression and summons up a mournful little “mew.”  This translates to:  “A whole crowd of bandits broke in here and messed up the place and ate all my food and drank all my water, and I was so scared I went and hid, and where were you, anyway?”

“I am not fooled, Tango,” I said, bending down to wipe up the 47 barfed-up hairballs that dotted my oriental carpet.

 “Mew,” she replied.  This translates to:  “No, no!  Those hairballs are mine!  If you brushed me more than three times a day, I wouldn’t be having that problem!  It’s all your fault!”

I looked at her in disgust.  “You know, you can’t go on like this, Tango -- having wild parties all day, and eating catnip like it’s cat food!  You’re going to damage your health, not to mention the woodwork,” I said, indicating a newel post that had been clawed so much it was now a newel toothpick.

“Mew,” she shot back.  This translates to:  “Yeah, yeah, get off my back.  I’m four years old, and I can do what I want.  I don’t need your permission!  Pardon me for living!”

“And, Tango, there have been complaints from the neighbors about loud music during the day.”

“Mew.”  Translated:  “Geez, what CAN I do?!  Am I breathing too loudly for you and your sainted neighbors?  Do you have any idea how boring it is all day around here?  And those toys you give me?  What a joke!  Why don’t you bring home a live mouse once in a while, Ms. Big Shot Writer?”

“And just look at your litter box!  What a mess!  This litter was fresh this morning and now it has about 20 pounds of poop in it!”

“Mew.”  Translated:  “If you’d buy me some decent food, my furry little colon wouldn’t be acting like a Play-Doh Fun Factory, moron!”

Sighing, I stood and threw away the last hairball.  If you leave your cat alone during the day, I strongly advise you to lock up the milk!

 

MEN AND BLINDNESS

           Does anybody, besides me, get exasperated with husbands who can’t find a goddamned thing?  If I hear, “Honey, where’s the juice?” one more time, I just know I’ll wind up sitting at a table with my defense attorney and staring up at Judge Ito.

With subtle variations, my day starts off like this:  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, toothpicks holding my eyes open, slurping down my first cup of coffee, while watching the birds packing it in at our feeder just outside the window.  The Zen-like tranquility of this quiet, sunny morning is about to be broken.

“Honey, where are my boxer shorts?”

“In the drawer, where I’ve been putting them for the last ten years.”

“Which drawer, though?”

At this point, I heave a sigh audible on the 50-yard line of the nearest football stadium, stomp down the hall, open the drawer and hand him his shorts.

“What would I ever do without you?” he purrs.

“You’d be pretty chilly,” I reply.

I go back to my coffee.  I have just resumed my chair, when . . .

“Honey?  Where are my loafers?”

“In the closet.”

“Where in the closet?”

“On the floor!”

“I don’t see them.”

I pray for restraint and stomp down the hall, yet again, open the closet, bend down, pick up his shoes, and hand them to him.

“What would I ever do without you?” he asks again.

Without me?!  I’m starting to question the fact that he even lives here.

Then he comes out to breakfast, open the fridge and . . .

“Honey?”

“Yessssssssss?”

“Where’s the orange juice?”

“It’s behind the milk.”

“No, it’s not.”

Grinding my teeth to nubs, I stomp over to the refrigerator, move the milk aside with a dramatic sweep, and indicate the orange juice, much the way a German Shorthaired Pointer would indicate a duck.

The sarcasm is lost on him.

Now he has the orange juice container in his hand and looks me right in the face and asks, “Honey?  Where are the glasses?”

I hand him his spectacles.

The sarcasm is lost on him.

“No, I mean to put the juice in,” he whines.

That finally does it.  Still in my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, I put on my coat, get in the car, and drive away.

If you happen to be passing by, you might want to drop off a gallon of orange juice for my husband so he doesn’t get dehydrated.

Just don’t put it behind the milk!

KIDS, THE RINSE CYCLE, AND SAVING SOULS

             I couldn’t put it off any longer.  Last night, I went to the laundromat to get my laundry done.

“Well, of course you went to the laundromat to get your laundry done!  What else would you do at a laundromat?” you cry.

Ahhhhh.  Thereby hangs a tale.

Now, being one of those poor souls who owns neither washer nor dryer, a trip to one of these institutions of automatic cleanliness is necessary once a week or so.   And believe me, if there wasn’t a bar right around the corner, even once a week would be too often!

I stuffed my dirty laundry into a pillowcase, jumped into my Dodge Aries K muscle car, and off I went.

The drive was short . . .way too short.

I sauntered in with my pillowcase full of clothing that smelled like it just got its “come on down” notification from the Underworld, stuffed a washer, dumped in soap, and paid the extortionist on duty the requisite ransom to run the machine.  I then settled back in a plastic chair, ergonomically designed to create something resembling the pain from a shattered spinal column within 27.5 seconds, to pass the time reading.

I’m so silly sometimes.

I had read exactly two paragraphs when I was hit in the head by an extremely hard rubber ball that two shrieking urchins were bouncing on the floor.  It scared me to think that a little rubber ball could generate so much hilarity in the youth of today, because if they think that’s funny, they must think that Henry Kissinger is a stand-up comedian.

At any rate, when they saw the hatred in my eyes (well, “eye” would be more accurate, since the other one had already swollen shut and was turning a shade of purple only Liberace could love), they scattered.  And, get this, they were crying!

Their mother stomped over to me and asked me if I thought scaring her children was funny.

“No,” I replied.  “What I think is funny is badly behaved children boiling in oil – right next to their idiot permissive parents!”

Deciding that further confrontation could be hazardous to her health, she walked away, looking fearful.

OK, back to the book.  Two more paragraphs, and . . .

CRASH!

Two other excrescences, one riding in a clothes cart, and the other pushing it, slammed into my right leg, the trick knee of which immediately sent me a post card saying, “Wish you were here.”

After my screaming subsided slightly, the mother of these creatures approached me.

“Why are you screaming like that?” she shouted.

 “Because it’s the only way I know how to scream when my knee is dislocated by children who were obviously raised by wolves!” I replied politely.

She took her leave, as well.

I located my pocketknife and slit my jeans at the knee so the swelling could continue unencumbered, sighed, and picked up my book again.

You guessed it . . . two paragraphs, and . . .

“Hello, ma’am ( I hate to be called “ma’am”).  Would you like a pamphlet about the Lighthouse Church?”

I looked up from my book.

“Do you see that I am reading?” I asked.  "What is it about this activity that you interpret as someone pining for conversation?"

“Well, yes, but this is so much more worthwhile than . . .what’s that you’re reading?”

I showed him the cover.  My book was entitled, How to Identify Human Skeletal Remains in the Field.  I gave him a wide, evil-looking smile.

“Well, I’ll just leave you a pamphlet,” he said, tossing one in my lap.  He proceeded to make a hasty round of the rest of the patrons, then departed.

I stuck the pamphlet in the back of my book, and attempted, once again, to concentrate.

Ten minutes later . . .

“Ma’am?” (there it was again) “I’d like to give you a pamphlet . . .”

Now was my chance!  “No, no!  I’d like to give you my pamphlet!” I cried, stuffing the pamphlet I’d received earlier into his sweaty hand.  Then I went back to my reading.

As the previous saver of souls did, this fellow made the rounds of the patrons, too.  I was able to tune him out until the buzzer sounded on my machine, and I had to get up to empty it.

As I was doing so, this moron approached me again.  I guess I really looked like I needed saving.

“Ma’am?” (blood pressure rising) “Do you know the way to Heaven?” he asked, with a capital H.

“No, but I know the way to San Jose, if that helps,” I said, tossing a tee shirt in the dryer.

“Ma’am?” (one more time, and I was going to move this man a good deal closer to God than he was prepared to be at that moment) “You don’t understand.  I already know the way.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

“I want to know if you know the way.”

“What difference does it make?  I’m not going right now, maybe not ever.  It sounds boring and I don’t like harp music.”

He was either stupid or deaf.

 “But ma’am,” (right! that’s it) wouldn’t you like me to show you the way to Heaven?  I’d be glad to!”

 “Pal, if you don’t leave me alone, I’d be glad to show you the way to hell!” I replied.

“But you don’t understand.  I want to lead you to Heaven!” he cried.

“What are you saying, then?  That you're here to kill me?  Help!  Help, police!  Murder!  Somebody dial 911!”

As a result of the ensuing fracas and the many statements that had to be taken, my laundry was left in the dryer far too long and was reduced to ashes that were several sizes too small.

But you know what?

It was worth it.

Storage Bin SNAFU

          Yesterday, I had the wonderful experience of clearing out my storage bin.  Well, not just clearing it out, but moving the stuff in my big storage bin to a much smaller, more affordable storage bin.

Ever try to fit twenty pounds of potatoes into a five-pound bag?

Of course, as soon as I mentioned my intention to do this mega job, all my friends were suddenly stricken with: 

1.  Bubonic plague

2.  Malaria

3.  Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

4.  Back pain from injuries they sustained in the Boer War.

So I set off, all by my lonesome, to do what I told my husband, Stij (he was the Boer War injury), would probably be a three-hour job.

Not even close.

Now, I’m one of those people who can get sidetracked for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time looking up a word in the dictionary.  There are so many other interesting words one comes across while on a mission of that sort.  So picture me standing amid stack after stack of boxes of books, most of which haven’t seen sunlight for a year or more.  I decided that I had to go through each box so I could be sure I’d have the books I would probably need access to placed up front in the new shoebox storage space into which I was moving.

Second mistake.

Three hours later, I wasn’t even half finished.  It was beginning to get dark out, so I stepped up my efforts.  This was working out fine until I came across a whole carton of childhood photographs and mementos.  Another hour came and went, while I alternately laughed and wept over what I found in that box (I’m a pretty emotional mover).  I found my original Teddy Bear (who still smelled the same – very important), photos of me at ages 4 and 9 (these are what caused the crying – I’d no idea I had been such a strange-looking child), old photos of my childhood playmates . . . well, you know the story.

By the time I finally finished the move, all broken and bleeding, even my hair hurt.  It was 10:00 PM (I’d started at 1:00 that afternoon) and rain was pouring down in a veritable wall of water. The storage place was closed for the night, and had been ever since 7:30.  The meant that he computer at the gate would not accept my password.  This also meant that I could not get my car out of the lot.

“Perfect,” I sighed.  I waded toward the gate through the monsoon, complete with gale force winds.  Upon arriving, I observed that the top edge of the gate was gaily festooned with a pleasant medley of razor wire and barbed wire.  I hadn’t noticed this before, since the idea of climbing over the gate had never previously occurred to me.

I sloshed back inside.  There was no telephone in the facility, but there was a fire alarm.  I reached out to pull it, but the realized that it would be pretty silly to set it off and call a group of men to bring even more water, and so passed on the idea.

I’m typing this on my laptop, while sitting on a pile of rubble inside my new storage bin.  If you happen to be in the area, could you please come and get me out?

 

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning? Yeah, Right.

           I’ve come to the conclusion that there are definitely day and night people.

My husband, Stij, for example, is a day person.  He will arise early of a Saturday, jette to the nearest window, and tear aside the curtain to gaze upon Mother Nature in all her dawn beauty.  The Peer Gynt Suite is playing in his mind as he throws up the sash and breathes deeply of the fresh morning air.  He will then do several deep knee bends and assorted other calisthenics, after which he will stride to the bathroom and take a cool shower.  He will sing during this.  Then, freshly scrubbed and dressed, he will joyfully leap down the stairs, or possibly slide down the banister, prance to the kitchen, and enjoy his first cup of coffee while listening to the morning birdsong at our feeder.  After a while, he will get up from the table and, from scratch, mix up some cinnamon rolls, bake them to perfection, make another pot of coffee, and take it all out to the patio, where he will spend the next few hours reading the paper and sharing his bounty with the squirrels.

That’s him.

I, on the other hand, am a night person.  I don’t react well to mornings.  I don’t react well to any time earlier than noon, because I will have gone to bed at 3:00 AM.  For comparative purposes, my mornings, when I have to face them, go something like this:

I arise early of a Saturday, stumble to the window, tear down the curtains, look at the sash, and throw up.  I gaze upon Mother Nature through crusty, mostly closed eyes, and wonder what the hell she’s doing up in the middle of the night.  I do not do this to appreciate her beauty.  I do this to see what the weather is like.  Even an observation as simple as this takes many minutes to penetrate my sleep-fogged brain, after which I fall back into bed and do my calisthenics, which include fluffing the pillow and finding a comfy position under ten layers of quilts.  But, the day calls, so I fall out of bed with a crash that registers on the Richter Scale, get up, check for broken bones, and teeter into the bathroom.  I take a shower (or I think I do.  I will not remember in an hour whether I did or not), then dress in the delightful fashion statement of business suit, ski boots, and a hardhat.  Next, I trip and fall down the stairs, landing in a heap at the kitchen doorway.  I get up, re-check for broken bones, and limp over to the coffee pot.  There’s none left, so I scoop in some cat litter and start it perking.  Stij has hidden my air rifle, so pot shots at the happy little birdies that are sounding so goddamned cheerful is out of the question.  I settle for obscene gestures, instead.  By now, Stij has cleared up all the knickknacks that broke when I fell down the stairs.  He walks into the kitchen.

 “Good morning, Sunshine!” he cries, with diabetes-inducing bonhomie.

“Who are you?” I mumble.

“The guy who looooooooovvvvvveeeessss you!” he twaddles, with minty-fresh breath.  Anybody who can add twenty extra syllables to the word “love” clearly does not want to live until lunchtime.

I turn and with my brimstone breath that I sent away to hell for, I ask, “Wwwwwwhhhhhoooooooo?”

He keels over.

Good.  That’s taken care of.  Blessed silence once again.

After I slug down my cat litter coffee and eat a sponge that I thought was a pastry, my eyes are finally open and my mind is finally functioning.  I survey the wreckage and do what has to be done.

I go back to bed.

 

What to Expect When Men Get Sick

            It’s often been said that men lead lives of quiet desperation.

Trust me, when a man gets sick, it’s either too quiet or not quiet enough.  You ladies know what I’m talking about if you’ve ever had to deal with a man who is ill.

There are two distinct types of men in these circumstances, and each is extreme.  Men do not do things halfway.

The first type is the Stoic.  He’s a macho guy, and will neither desire nor require attention of any kind.  You will not even know he was sick until you find him dead.  He will refer to a mangled appendage as a “cut” and will ignore pain; or, at least, will never admit to it.  Our Stoic will not think twice about going to work with something contagious – like leprosy – and will continue to work while body parts drop off.  He’ll fix the car while he’s bleeding to death from a drive-by bullet wound.  He’ll play poker with his buddies the day after quadruple bypass surgery.  He will not stop.  He’s the Energizer Bunny of humanity.  He is the real reason for nailing coffins shut.

At the other end of the spectrum, we have the Whiner.

To the Whiner, every sneeze is pneumonia, every headache a brain tumor.  An upset stomach is always good for a white-knuckled trip to the emergency room and a speeding ticket to add to the collection.  If you’re not sure of your guy is a Whiner, there’s an easy way to find out.  Just walk into any emergency room in the state in which you live.  If you are greeted by name by any member of the staff, then, honey, you’ve definitely got yourself a Whiner.

OK, so he’s wheeled into the emergency room, is examined by an exasperated doctor (who has real emergencies to attend to), and is told, for the umpteenth time, to go home and stay in bed for a day.

You must have done something to offend this doctor for him to wish this on you.  Maybe he’s getting you back for that emergency appendectomy you had to have last year that interrupted the only golf game he was winning . . . in his life . . .that he had big money riding on.

“Your wife will give you all the TLC you need.”  He looks at you and smiles evilly.  Oh, yeah.  Had to be that appendectomy.

After arriving at Home Sweet, he climbs into bed under at least 10 layers of electric blankets, with a thermometer jammed in his mouth.  By the end of the day, you’ll want to jam it someplace else, on the pretext of getting a more accurate reading.

Just to cheer himself up, he’s watching a video of “Camille,” and looking as miserable as Dennis Miller in a deaf mute ward.  And in case he’s not in stitches by the end of “Camille,” he has videos of “Last Holiday” and “Philadelphia” as backup, as well as a copy of Death, Be Not Proud on his nightstand.

When you ask him if he needs anything, he’ll respond, “Yes.  A gun with one bullet.”

“But you only have a headache.”

Don’t ever say, “only.”

In response, you will get a diatribe regarding your lack of sympathy and a litany of descriptive phrases detailing the massive pain he is currently suffering, and the fact that this headache isn’t a “normal” headache, but feels like it could be brain cancer, winding up with “I only wanted the gun to shoot myself in the arm to distract me from the pain in my legs.  I think I may have an embolism, or something.”

And never smoke around this person, unless you care to spend the next few hours listening to a graphically described harangue on the effects of secondhand smoke.  This one will develop a smoker’s hack at the mere sight of a cigarette, lit or not.

He has pills to counteract the deadly interactions of his other pills.  He owns a hospital bed, a cardiac monitor, and a blood pressure cuff.  His food must be overcooked and unpalatable, and the only dessert he’ll eat is Jell-O.  He must be kept from watching all television medical dramas because, immediately following such entertainment, he will develop all the symptoms of the plot disease.  The fact that it’s a type of flesh-eating malady found only in a small town in Liechtenstein, and he’s never traveled outside his town in the U.S. will not deter him.  He will declare that the germs were brought in on the clothing of some careless traveler with a death wish.

He takes so many vitamins that Centrum had to hire a second shift.  He gets personal Christmas cards from the presidents of Upjohn, Eli Lily, and Merck.  He gets a fruit basket from his local drug store every year on his birthday.  His doctor sends him tapes of Marcus Welby reruns just before his daughter’s tuition payment is due.

In short, either way, Stoic or Whiner, men are men. 

And really…would we have it any other way?

HATS OFF . . . DEFINITELY!

Have you ever noticed how some people are “hat people” and others aren’t?

I fall into the latter category.  Hats look terrible on me; while a friend of mine, who dragged me along hat shopping last week, could put a burlap bag on her head and look like Cindy Crawford.  I could do the same thing and look like Broderick Crawford.  People could give me spare change, for heaven’s sake!

So, off we trundled to “Hats, Hats, Hats.” 

The first one she picked up was a top hat, reminiscent of Fred Astaire and long, elegant staircases.  She looked magnificent in it.  She put it on my head, and I resembled a deranged version of Abraham Lincoln. 

Next, a cloche.  This is a French-style hat, made of felt, rounded on the top with a soft brim that rolls upward.  She looked like a high-fashion Parisian.  I looked like a toad peeking out from under a rock. 

But I humored her.  That’s the kind of person I am. 

She tried on a velvet baseball cap and looked wonderful.  I looked like Daffy Duck’s wife. 

“Please,” I begged, “buy one and let’s go.” 

“Oh, but there are so many to choose from!” she burbled.  “Let’s try a few more.” 

I was being punished for something, I just knew it. 

She tried on a white felt hat with a veil.  Men would have dropped dead if they ever saw her in it.  She put it on me and…voila!  A beekeeper!

Next, a cowboy hat.  She:  Dale Evans.  Me:  Trigger. 

She finally settled on a gray wool Kangol wedge cap.  It really looked cute on her, and I could easily envision her wearing it behind the wheel of a vintage sports car. When I tried it on, I looked like Ed Norton sporting a manhole cover.  But I didn’t care at that point.  It was over.  She had the hat wrapped up and we left for lunch, which turned out to be delicious. 

While drinking our coffees, she picked up her package and held it out. 

“Merry Christmas,” she said. 

I wonder if there are any job openings in the Department of Sanitation.