I’m not cool enough for Apple…  

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I found myself in an Apple store waiting for my boss to have his phone looked at. This was after he’d cheerily announced we could walk down to the parking garage (the sun was approximately 8546816841 miles closer to the earth today and was singling out Nashville). I didn’t wear shoes meant for walking. These shoes are dress shoes. You’re meant to look like a dressy individual without very far to walk because you have extremely important meetings to attend. I attended zero meetings, important or otherwise. I also tromped down to the parking garage, maybe ¾ mile? I don’t do distances. It’s enough for me to break into a solid sweat. However far in kilameterwatts that is.

We then had to find someplace to park and the walk across a shorter distance to the Apple store. I have never been in one, but it was easy to pick it out. It was brightly lit with a wall of glass that had sectioned into multiple parts instead of just having a door. There was also a large screen opposite from the wall of glass partitions that had a trendy hipster-looking young lady doing some sort of seminar. She was extremely upbeat and happy. The closer we got, the more nervous I became.

We entered the non-door entranceway and immediately I was uncomfortable. The music was loud, there were a billion people all yelling at each other to be heard over the loud music. The seminar tutorial chick in the back was amplified from invisible speakers. A cute little boy was playing a game on one of the display phones which had the volume all the way up and he was shrieking in excitement. Everything was bright and loud and scary and very peopley.

We stood for an hour or more before a technician could check out the broken phone. In that time we moved around to avoid people at my behest multiple times. However, we are apparently people magnets. So I decided to just stare at everyone. So many types of hipsters. So many cool, hip, older folks. So many bad haircuts and facial piercings and tattoos and pants that I consider high waters but have apparently come back into vogue? We were so bored my boss actually approached a salesperson and invited him to do his song and dance about Apple watches.

Then a small, less handsome but much more tattooed Paul Rudd appeared and started working on the broken phone. I was thrilled. My back was unhappy and my feet were on fire. Just standing still was making me curse softly and steadily under my breath. Another 30 minutes or so, and we were on our way. I was very much over the tattooed cool people. These were not my tribe. My tribe has comfy seating, snacks, and fewer people. It was like a college coffee bar in a movie. Or….New Orleans in a movie. It smelled slightly better than New Orleans, but the same hippy bohemian vibe was present.

I prefer stinky New Orleans.

PS. I will miss the annual Mac & Cheese Festival in New Orleans this year. I am so beyond devastated, it’s delicious and fun and in the best city ever and I’m ready for next year. If you haven’t been, go. Trust me.

PPS. Go see the tree of life while you’re there.

I got home eventually and hobbled my way through a shower and down to water the plants that are doing their best to die in our late September heatwave. My pup went outside with me, as did two cats. She immediately plodded over to try and dig up cat poop (kitty cookies) and eat it. Since she’s mostly deaf, I had to move fast to stop her. My feet screamed. They’re weenies. I redirected her with very stern hand gestures and facial expressions. I started watering plants. Then my pup, old sweet geriatric pup, saw absolutely nothing and decided this was her moment to shine. I saw her go still, bunch her old pitiful muscles up, and launch. There was nothing to launch at, but she started running pretty well for an old pup. I tore after her but I did not run pretty well for any sort of pup. I am, in fact, extremely slow. I was also wearing flip flops that are too big and fall off easily. I knew she’d pay for running, her back end is so weak and I couldn’t let her hurt herself. So I ran faster. If you’ve ever watched penguins run, that’s what I imagine I looked like. I had to do an exaggerated stepping motion in order to not lose the flip flops. I needed the flip flops to have any chance of getting through the rocks in the yard. She was making good time. It took me forever to get close enough to grab her, and I was pretty sure we were both going to end up rolling down the embankment behind my house and just staying where we landed. It wasn’t a graceful stop, but we got stopped. And then we had to get back to the house, and my feet were just all sorts of pissed.

So I grabbed a banana, called it dinner, and came upstairs (so slowly she beat me to the top) so I could get in bed and not move again until I die. I am never going back to an Apple store, and I will need to get something to tie the pupster up with when I need to water. I’m too old for these adventures.

Swamp Monster Weekend

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Weekends are a fantastic thing now that I don’t work retail. This weekend has been exactly what I desperately needed.  I’m one of those people that needs alone time. I need to be able to retreat into my space like a hermit crab. One of the major adjustments when moving into Mancandy’s domain was adjusting to not having my own space and therefore, not being able to retreat anywhere. I wish I was someone who felt refreshed being around my family or my friends. While I do enjoy both of those situations, I need time to myself. I didn’t realize exactly how much I needed that until everyone left. A boy scout camp out weekend meant all the male Minicandies and Mancandy would go hang out in the woods and live as nature intended. This left me completely alone for two full days and Friday evening. I have soaked in the quiet. I took a nap (If you’re a light sleeper who lives with other humans you know how hard this can be to manage). I listened to a book on tape while working. I cleaned, and no one messed it up. I took a shower, I cleaned the shower, and I wandered around in my underwear (so I didn’t start immediately starts sweating as soon as I was out of the shower). I cooked nothing and ordered food from Doordash two nights in a row. What? Yes. Complete luxury. The Doordash dude is the only person I’ve seen or spoken to in two days. Just throw me my food, wave, and go on your way, sir. He got it. He may be my new best friend.

Random Things That Occurred This Weekend:

  1. The one thing I looked forward to and ordered with extreme enthusiasm was wings. I don’t know why as an adult rapidly approaching middle age I’ve become a dude in his 20’s, but wings are my fave. No one else in my house is as enthusiastic as I am, so we don’t do that often. I did my thing with the Doordash dude (his name is Richard and I adore him), sat down with my paper towel roll and drink, prepped what I wanted to watch on YouTube, and dug in. As I’m eating my very first wing (but because I’m a swamp monster I’m already completely covered in sauce) I hear that huuuuurk huuuuuurk HUUUUUURK sound of a cat preparing to puke. I scramble to grab my paper towel and set my wings aside. I’m wiping up my fingers and begging the cat not to when I watch her hurl right in front of me on the carpet. She then glares at me, flips me the bird, and saunters off. I grab paper towels to grab the evidence before the dog can eat it. Dogs are awesome but gross. As I’m grabbing up puke and watching the dog to make sure she doesn’t sneak a snack, she realizes there’s a better target on the couch. My beloved wings. She takes off in that direction faster than an old kid should be able to move. I find myself running across the room carrying my newly acquired gobs of puke carefully. Then I have a dilemma. Both hands are full of puke bombs. I try to squish the puke bombs into one hand and puke oozes out and plops on the carpet. Again. The dog eyes the puke, eyes the wings, and looks at me to see how I prioritize this situation. I’m cursing, but she’s mostly deaf and pretending to be fully deaf. Wings won out and as I grab them in my one free hand she dove for the puke. I tried to pivot and block her with my hip but I’m clumsy, overbalanced, and landed directly in the puke. It was still warm. Not exactly what I was going for. I slammed the takeout box of wings shut with my one clean hand, swoop up the paper towel roll, and grabbed the bag under the takeout box to stick the puke bombs (slightly deflated) into the bag. From there I was able to get my foot mostly clean, get the rest of the puke cleaned up, and wash my hands and foot in the kitchen sink like the true classy lady I am. I eventually got back to my cool but unmolested wings, and thoroughly enjoyed them, but I felt like that was all planned out by the animals and I’d somehow passed a test I wasn’t prepared for.
  2. I got a text from Papa Poopster that Little Poopster got his poop snake this weekend! She has a traditional name, but her name will remain Poop Snake to me. I’m still highly amused by this situation and look forward to seeing if Poopster will revert to pooping in his pants now that he’s gotten his prize. Her pic is the Featured Image at the top of this post. Stay tuned for updates.
  3. I got a video from Mancandy last week that didn’t come through until after my last post. It’s fantastic. If I knew how to upload it I would, but I haven’t a clue how and so I shall just describe its awesomeness. Just know, watching it is probably better. Mancandy had text me about Minicandy schedules. I responded, but in my typical classy fashion, I included the word poop. He responded letting me know that he was having his vehicle read my texts and it was funny to hear the car read that word. I was amused at the concept and sent texts such as “Giant flaming piles of poop” “Aggressively poop all the poops you can poop” “Will it say shit?” “What about damn” “Are the kids with you, I want to try more aggressive words but don’t want to scar them”. In response, he sent the video of the car reading the texts. It was probably the most fun I’ve had other than being left alone to do whatever I wanted. If anyone you know has a car that reads their texts, go wild. It’s fun.
  4. I hear the sounds of Mancandy and Minicandies returning OR a hoard invading the house. I should probably investigate. If I stop posting, the hoard got me. Make my eulogy funny.

Sled Dog Stories…

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Bella is an elderly pup with a bad back end. Her hips are completely arthritic and stiff. Her knees blew out a few years ago putting an end to her zoomie days. She’s sore and crotchety and we are on a fairly constant regimen of NSAIDs. I really didn’t think she would surprise me. This is exactly how she did just that.

I found a pair of floofy thin pants with wide legs. They don’t flatter but they are ridiculously comfortable. I don’t usually wear that type of pant leg though. I decided to try them out before bed one night.

Bell indicated she needed to go out so I figured we’d do one last run outside and then turn in. I was proud of myself for remembering her sling (a strap that runs under her stomach and allows me to take the weight off of her hind end when climbing the stairs. She hates it. Lots.

We got our business taken care of. We got our customary bathroom business dog biscuit. We went to the bottom of the stairs. She tried to get past me but eventually succumbed to the inevitable. We started up the stairs. Things went normally. As we turned at the landing and started up the second part of the stairs, I stepped on the hem of the other leg of my stupid wide-leg pants. My top half kept going forward, but my feet and legs were brought to a lurching stop. I went down like a tree.

Bella, sensing an attack, hurtled up the stairs.  Adrenaline erased all sign of age and infirmary, she was in fine form. I was still wrapped up in the sling so I was drug up the stairs with the enthusiasm of an Iditarod team. I was scrambling to keep my pants from being taken clean off, and get my feet under me, and stop stepping on the damn pants and making things worse.

It was the least graceful moment of my life. Which is saying something.

I mostly kept my pants on. Bella was completely convinced we were still under attack. Thankfully, Weebs hadn’t been hanging out in the stairs as he often does or I would have to be writing about his funeral.

I decided to just lay there contemplating how embarrassing that was. And how much my stupid knee hurt. Then I realized other people live in my house and might come out to see what the ruckus was. So I got myself gathered up and limped into go to bed. An inglorious end to an inglorious adventure.

The only saving grace to all of this was telling a coworker who then topped my story by telling me about the time her dog drug her across a patio toward other dogs while she was laying in the chair her dog had drug over (picture it…a lady in an Adirondack chair slowly scooting across a gravel yard while a husky mix is mushing with all his strength and she curses and tries to right herself….it’s comedic gold).

Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to witness it nor are there pictures. But, the mental image will always soothe the pain to my pride that the short but energetic trip up the stairs caused.

Also, here’s some clumsy baby animals. The end.

 

Swamp Monster Sunday

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As a certified swamp monster, I have funky skin and features and…well….I’m just an odd duck. So, the fact I have – in my mid-thirties mind you – fallen in love with makeup (especially colorful eyeshadow) is just the weirdest damn thing ever and mildly embarrassing.

I work for the state of TN and as such, I’m supposed to look like a professional human. Swamp monsters with colorful sparkly glitter smeared all over their faces are not encouraged. So, I bought a few really bright, really fun palettes with all these dazzling awesome colors…and have absolutely no reason to smear them all over my face. It’s been bugging me. I’m too old for this; I don’t even know what I’m doing or how to apply makeup, but I am right this moment resisting the urge to buy a palette of nothing but yellow eye shadow. Do I EVER wear that color? No. Would it likely make me look jaundiced and even less attractive? Likely. But my brain has never been a fan of logic, so I just want it. Here’s a picture of it (That I stole from ColourPop’s website. Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, blogging rules are not well explained, but it’s free advertising and I own nothing of value….so let’s just cross our fingers and hope).

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As part of the swamp monster package, I am also the owner of a weird body. It’s overly large, pale, ungainly, and uncoordinated.  I have been telling myself I’d lose weight (and become hot in the process….which is COMPLETELY different from losing weight….but I digress) since around the first time I heard someone refer to someone else as fat. My earliest memories are disliking how much bigger I was than the other kids, I towered over them and outweighed them and had to wear a training bra at like…6. Since my weird body decided to malfunction regularly and I go to various specialists quite often, my endocrinologist is extremely interested in things like…my BMI, my proportions, my insulin levels, my exercise routine (I lied and said I had one of those), etc. I really do want to be healthy. So, I actually have to get an exercise routine (ick). And maintain it. And not eat my feelings. And other people’s feelings.

So. I tell you all of that to tell you that I woke up intending to do none of the things I have done today. I woke up and just wanted coffee. That’s it. But, once I got up and got moving, I wanted to puzzle. Mancandy and I are working on a puzzle because we’re old and that’s what old, boring, antisocial people do. We puzzle and we drink coffee (our version of drinking and knowing things).

Mancandy was not in a puzzling mood. I found that annoying, but it’s hard to motivate someone to puzzle.

“Please come sit with me and be as frustrated and annoyed with 87616814 pieces of cardboard that have various portions of leaves that are all the same color.”

Though he did not want to puzzle at that exact moment, he claimed he would want to puzzle soon. That statement made zero sense to me, but I shrugged and tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my beautiful precious time off. I thought of all my pretty, shiny, colorful eye shadows just sitting here while I slather myself in boring colors day in and day out. I decided to play.

The Blue Moon palette was the first thing I saw, so it’s what I decided to smear upon my face hole flaps.

Blue moon

I meant to take a picture to show you how unskilled I am at this. But, I didn’t. I’m going to insert a picture from Pinterest showing what this might look like were I talented. It’s not at all what it looked like, but whatever. It’s my story. Enjoy this much better representation of blue eyeshadow. This is not me (so obviously not me that it’s funny to write it, but please don’t sue me if this IS you, because I’m super jealous and also I don’t have anything worth suing to take).

BM Look

Instead, I went downstairs and announced extremely loudly, “I’m blue and bold, bitches, lets puzzle!”

I found this to be a funny statement. I usually crack myself up. Unfortunately, I had not looked to be sure Mancandy was awake. He was not. But he jolted awake at my declaration and restrained what looked like a fairly strong urge to throttle me. He also looked at my face, which was 1/3 bright blue, and just said: “oh my”. I felt like I should probably be offended by this, but chose not to be. Mostly because he says stuff that could be insulting all the time and I don’t have the time it would take to be offended.

We puzzled for a while. I got 5 pieces into the puzzle and felt remarkably accomplished. Set low goals and you’ll never be disappointed, my friends. We decided we should move the elliptical machine my boss gave us (yay boss!) into the air-conditioned part of the house. As obviously that was the only thing holding me back. So we did. And then he announced he was going to mow.

I hate that moment. I feel like I should do something equally horrible, but I don’t want to do any horrible things. So I declared I would work out. While he mowed. And then I realized I’d said it out loud, the elliptical was inside, and I actually had to do it now. Dread set in.

So I worked out. Put on a sports bra and athletic shoes and everything. I don’t understand these people that say, oh yes, the endorphins, it is a rush, working out is fun, blah blah. I apparently don’t possess endorphins. I spent every single minute of the time I spent on the elliptical screaming internally that I was not allowed to stop yet.

Fun fact, the elliptical is third hand and I am grateful to have it, but it squeaks like you’re skinning something alive. So the longer I worked out, the louder and more aggressive the skinning of the thing became. The cats were horrified. They may be scarred for life. The dog equated skinning alive with thunderstorms and fireworks and started panting and stress whining as if to duet the shrieking machine. So the entire time I’m on the damn thing the dog is singing along to this really annoying shriek squeak, and the cats are running around trying to escape the demonic noise but unable to find a place to do so.

Within 4 seconds I was drenched in sweat. Not just a little glisten, no ma’am and/or sir! I take sweating seriously. So my shirt is stuck to me and my sparkly blue face now has rivulets of blue running down it and on down my neck. It looked like I was painting some sort of river scene across my face, but in my typical “enthusiasm makes up for lack of talent” way. I stopped when I was pretty sure I’d just have to fall sideways off of the machine because I had jelly for legs and was gasping so hard I thought I might pass out. Probably 4 minutes in. No, it was more than that, but not as long as it should have been.

I sat down on the tile floor (likely leaving an impressive butt outline in sweat) to cool my rumpus and contemplated puking. When that didn’t sound like fun anymore I got up and started up the stairs. That was a mistake as I likely can’t go back down now. I’ll just live up here. Please fling food up occasionally. This will be my new diet plan.

I shambled my sweaty, miserable, gasping, slightly nauseous self into the bathroom. Stripped down. Turned on the shower. Turned around to set my hair tie down by the sink and accidentally looked into the mirror.

I looked like I’d eaten a smurf alive…aggressively….in a very messy fashion. My hair was plastered to my sweaty skull and there was blue smeared all over my face. I don’t even know how it was possible to be that gross, but I managed.

A shower has never been so lovely. And now I have to look forward to doing that same thing over and over and over until I’m less horrible at it. Dying young is kind of looking mildly appealing. But that doctor will get to hear all about the “exercise routine” I’m working on.

Just need some W-D 40. Or the cats may not survive it any better than I do.

 

Cats Ruin Everything.

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I have a dream. A backyard patio with grass, flowers, spring in the air, birds chirping, the animals lounging around, coffee….you know….that stereotypical relaxing backyard scene. Our neighbors on one side have a lovely, if plain. On the other side, there is a much more exotic, busy yard with flowers, statues, windmills, chimes, and planters for more of the same crammed into a small space. It’s eclectic and not something I would want to deal with, but it’s amazing in full bloom.

We had a dirt and rock pit type landscape going with a lot of weeds. Mancandy doesn’t care about it. At all. As long as the grass (what little there is) doesn’t get too high (only because the HOA will send nasty letters that piss him off) he couldn’t care less.

Last year I was excited that our neighbors had an old patio set they gave us. Wanda, the coolest neighbor ever, came over in the blazing summer heat to help me sand it down and spray paint. We were so sweaty we couldn’t stand ourselves and I thought really hard about having a heat stroke, but the result was a somewhat decent looking set (if you don’t get too close to it). I harassed Robert into getting more strapping since a lot of the original had rotted and snapped. That strapping is still in a roll someplace in this house. Until the strapping is on cushions are pointless and sitting in the chairs is a test of faith in gravity’s lack of hold on thine rumpage. It is also insulting when you stand up and see how far the few straps that remain stretched out to cradle said rumpage. I have plans, but it’s a very slow and frustrating process when the Mancandy drags his feet getting on board.

Not to be deterred, I was determined to enjoy time outside after work yesterday. It’s still light when I get home now that the time has changed and it was gorgeous weather. We’ve been in the seventies, sunny, no humidity, etc., the past couple days. I’m aware the hellish heat is coming so I stay outside or by open windows as much as possible. We took the pup for a walk and the two “normal” cats came with us. We had our tiny puma patrol. They were quite pleased with themselves.

As we came back to the house I suggested evening coffee and outside time. Bell can’t do much in the way of running now that her back legs are in such back shape, but she loves laying outside and telling off anyone she notices. Or thinks she notices. The cats enjoy vacating their bladder and bowels in the one area of dirt we optimistically spread grass seed on every so often. You know, relaxing stereotypical stuff. We spent our time arguing about global warming, arguing over which cat is the best hunter (we both though Neo but he assumed Tsuki didn’t hunt because she didn’t bring back kills while Neo assumes we’re too stupid to hunt for ourselves and brings back little dead bodies all the time), and agreeing that we hate most people.

We really were relaxing and beginning to think about dinner. The weather was gorgeous, the dog was happy, one of the cats was entertaining us; pouncing and playing as if he was finding moles, arching his back and crab walking,  it was pretty awesome. I was sure I was making headway with ideas to improve our “outdoor living space”. He was pretending to listen to me, happily jabbering about planters and a raised bed for veggies when Tsuki started belly crawling through the yard away from us, quickly picking up speed. I had time to say “oh crap” while Robert sucked in his breath to curse. A couple of mockingbirds had been scolding the cats the entire time we’d been outside. After a couple unsuccessful attempts to smack them the cats settled back to ignore them. I was scared she was going after them again, but instead, Tsuki launched herself into one of the huge bushes (it’s a bush but it’s probably….9 feet tall and 6 feet across….superman vegetation). Neo, the other cat, started hauling butt that way. Tsuki let out a hunters scream at the same time birds explode everywhere, also screaming. It sounded like we’re skinning animals alive, the sheer volume of sound was incredible.

We could hear something screaming at a higher pitch as if in excruciating pain and the dog starts trying to run that way as Robert and I also take off across the yard. The two adult birds are shrieking in defiance and raining down bird rage as they swoop and smash themselves into a blur I took to be Tsuki. Fuzzy running things that I eventually realized were fledglings, unable to fly yet, haul ass across the yard, Neo in pursuit. I yell at the dog to stay out of it, scream at Neo to knock it off as Robert gets to the bush Tsuki has disappeared into and starts kicking and yelling. More birds explode out and there’s so much noise and motion I can’t tell what’s what. Neo is startled by my manic scream and pursuit that he pauses to stare at me and the fledglings have a chance to get into taller grass past the walking trail. Mom and Dad bird are about to have heart attacks between the cat assaulting their feathered children and the humans yelling and scrambling and the other cat running after more children. Tsuki has crawled all the way to the center of the bush and we can’t get to her nor can we tell if she’s got a baby bird. I couldn’t hear any noise from her direction so I figured if she had one, it was either dead or close to it. I turned my attention to saving the rest of them. Neo was having a full excitement induced weirdo attack. He was puffed up, darting at anything that moved, running back over to stare and hiss in Tsuki’s general direction, and basically look insane.  I’d gotten Bell inside and we tried to corner Neo. He was not having it.

At this point, the neighbors have heard blood-curdling screams of pain and fear, our screams of anger, excited barking from a big dog, cats yowling, and now us yelling KITTY KITTY KITTY as if that will coax anything to come to us. The only chance those babies had was for us to get the stupid cats inside. Eventually, Robert resorted to a controlled pounce and snagged Neo. I had door duty and made sure the dog stayed in while the cat was tossed in. The treat jar was grabbed and more “KITTY KITTY COME HERE YOU ASSHOLE CAT WE WERE RELAXING!” ensued. Tsuki, amazingly, became interested enough in the idea of treats to stick her head out and was also pounced upon.

We found ourselves with wide eyes, clutching our coffee, standing in the kitchen panting, while the cats stalked each other, hissing and poofing with excess adrenaline.

Stereotypical relaxing outdoor space activity.

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Latest Weebs Adventures, Turdlette Slings, and Stuff…

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Weebs loves to watch. He’s a super creepy little man and he will stalk me all over the house while I’m doing chores. It usually makes things like laundry or loading the dishwasher more fun because he stares in wonder at everything. So as I was switching laundry he comes creeping up behind me and flattens himself to blend in with the carpet that he does not match at all. I try to get pictures because it’s ridiculously cute but if he sees my phone change to camera he immediately does something less cute.  He will lay as flat as possible, even his ears go sideways and flatten out, but he’s got a gut on him and it flows out on either side and ruins the predator vibe he’s going for. I love it.

I like to get my chores going as soon as I wake up on Saturday morning for two reasons. 1. If I don’t I will wait until bedtime Sunday night and be extremely angry and tired on Monday. 2. If I look super busy right away I can choose the easier chores and Mancandy will usually feel bad and is left with the chores I avoid like the plague and wanted him to do anyway. And I don’t have to say a word. This doesn’t always work, but when it does I feel extremely sneaky and clever.

I started out with towels because if I got busy with something else and forgot them it wouldn’t be a big wrinkled mess. I don’t understand ironing, it doesn’t work for me…I’m pretty sure it’s voodoo. So if it shouldn’t be wrinkled I have to catch it right away when the dryer finishes. Which takes more attention to detail than I possess without a lot of coffee. So I was pulling towels out of the dryer and throwing underwear in (same reasoning). My little fat predator was watching every move. If socks dropped he swatted at them (from a good 2 feet away), what he lacks in depth perception he makes up for with determination.  He made little happy chortle sounds (to himself, as all great predators do) and waited with huge eyes to see what would happen. His world was made even more exciting when I stepped beside him (he immediately grabbed my sock, got a nail stuck on it, scratched me for holding onto his foot, and fought like a small tiger while I unsnagged his nail) to begin the lovely process of cleaning the litter boxes.  He LOVES playing defense while I try to remove what he deposits.

As I go I can usually avoid his swats at the scoop quite easily. He’s not exactly athletic. However, every now and then he uses a surprising amount of dexterity and his aim is true and he wins the round. Today he wasn’t even swatting at the scoop that often, he’d become sidetracked by the bag eating the scoops contents and was talking to it. All cats should talk to inanimate objects like this cat does. It’s the best.

I let my guard down. As I was moving several large, fresh movements o’cat bowels he struck. A little brown foot whipped out from underneath the scoop and smacked up and over. He has never been that quick nor that coordinated. I was neither of those things when cat crap attacked my face. MY FACE. I had to go wash (and there is NO amount of washing that suffices) little skid marks off of my face. And then go back and corral the freed turds from the great outdoors and get them back in the bag. And not squish the cat who was back in predator mode trying to make contact to smack his freed friends around the laundry room.

He will not be helping me with chores anymore.

My life is a dumpster fire. Swamp monster level 100 today folks. Happy Saturday!

Test of Wills.

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The cats rule us in this house. It was never my intention to have a gaggle of cats. I had a geriatric diabetic cat who ruled the roost for years, so I was very much wanting to have some time without constantly medicating/bathing/cleaning up after a crabby cat. I was traveling a lot when I had her and that cat HATED to travel. Each trip, no matter the duration, ended up with projectile diarrhea, urinating, and screaming the entire trip while she sloshed around in her own mess to get as disgusting as possible. One time we hadn’t even moved yet, just sitting in the driveway. I tried letting her out in the truck thinking confinement was the issue. I now have a truck that has a distinct smell I can never get out as it simply allowed her to squish her miasma of grossness everywhere she could get to. I couldn’t afford to kennel her so she’d get her medication, I couldn’t leave her without the insulin, so she had to come along. My truck and my nose will never be the same. So when I say I wanted a break, I was beyond ready for a break from needy cats.

Then Weebles happened. Months of no sleep, bottle feedings, various medications, visits to vets across the state, moves across the country, and the never-ending sound of his songs to his people or his incessant need to scratch the litter box. Now I listen to his antics all night or wear ear plugs, clean up after said antics in the morning, try to toddler proof my house for a cat and fight tooth and nail to medicate twice a day.

He loved pill pockets. It was a perfect harmony, a treat with a hidden gem of meds that I didn’t have to fight to get in him. Unfortunately, since he’s now part of the household and still fascinated by the “big cats”, he has no time for medication. Or people. He wants absolutely nothing to do with us and is much too busy for medication! I switched from salmon to chicken flavor and that seemed to take care of it. And then that nose shot up in the air and he began refusing yet again.

I thought maybe I’d handled the pill too much before putting it into the pill pocket. The first couple refusals I didn’t think much of it, scruffed him, popped it down the gullet, and went on my way muttering. It’s been over a week. He does not want anything to do with his much-beloved pill pockets and he’s slowly learning that when I walk toward him he should run away. Thankfully he can’t figure out which way to run very quickly, but it’s only a matter of time.

They need to come up with a patch I can stick on him that slowly doses meds that way. Or a long lasting med I can give less frequently. It won’t happen, there aren’t enough cats with his condition for the expense and time of clinical trials and all that jazz, but now I’ll be pestering his vet for a compounding liquid option or something similar but not exactly the same as pill pockets to see if I can entice him. His face, when he decides he doesn’t want to take his meds, is possibly the best combo of “NO!” and “WHAT IS HAPPENING!?”  He’s also got this nifty move of ducking his head down and back between his shoulder blades so finding his scruff when he’s running away is pretty difficult. Like an odd little beaver, he flattens himself out and scrooches those eyes to slits and talks uuuuuuugly. In the good column, he can’t think fast enough to actually swipe at me so I just have to keep his mouth from closing whilst my fingers are inside of it.

My diabetic kid was food motivated, so shots of insulin were no big deal. Just give her treats and she didn’t even notice. Weebs doesn’t care about food at all. He’s still in wonder of his new siblings and wants to follow them or go look for them. That’s it. He was so worn out from following them around last night that I found him sleeping in a weird position in the middle of the upstairs landing and didn’t even stir when my dog licked his face (her breath is enough to raise zombies). She narrowly missed stepping on him when she turned around and her tail smacked into him. He didn’t even move. I had to check to make sure he was breathing; it gave me a mild panic for a second. He was just snoozing.

I’m irritated with the entire situation, but that’s what you get with special needs kits. So much frustration. His obsession with his litter box is a discussion for another day, but it’s going to happen.

However, one thing I do NOT find irritating is the amount of fancy footwork we’ve gotten video of. And bizarre play spazzing oddness. Watching him try to be a normal cat is one of my favorite activities. If you haven’t seen it, the Instagram link for this blog is on the left side bar. Videos and pics are uploaded there. Feel free to check them out (ignore the fact my house is not super clean and fancy, I’d make an excuse but I just don’t care enough to put that much effort into it).