The $125 Oil Change

I know it is normal practice for women to let men change the oil in their vehicles, I do, even if it means paying strangers money to do it. I HATE those guys, tho, cuz they always try to sell me stuff I don’t need, and I feel guilty for saying no. A while back I bought the filter and the oil to do it myself, and frankly, never did. The filter sat on my dining room table, mocking me, reminding me that I am more or less a lazy sot. It was a very LOUD filter, that one. On Monday, I decided to shut it up.

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The Handyman Cometh … Not

If I think about things too long, I wind up needing to take an axe to a tree. I used to do that in a house I rented 20 years ago. There was a dead tree in the back yard which the homeowner didn’t want to take down, so when I got particularly angry about things, like, you know, overbearing bosses and prissy administrators, I would take my dad’s axe and get busy. I would yell and name each lick on that poor tree. It didn’t come down on my watch, but it sure took some abuse.

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Mea Culpa

God is going to get good and tired of me railing on Him when crap goes wrong. But apparently He is in a good mood at the moment, and somebody has been praying for me HARD. In the midst of my grief over losing not one, but four kittens in one day, I said some pretty serious things to Him. I meant them. Then my guardian angels stepped in and softened me up a little, and I managed to not cut my wrists.

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Tree Woman Strikes Again

Many years ago I pulled down half a tree with my bare hands in front of a couple of smart-alec witnesses. I have been “Tree Woman” ever since. It’s a mark of two things, I guess, stupid impulsivity and a do-it-myself attitude. Plus, it’s funny to some people. Go figure.

So yesterday I noticed that my newly-installed dishwasher was leaking. When I looked, it wasn’t so much a leak as a current that was running under the cabinets, soaking the flooring underneath. To make matters worse, the reason I asked for help installing it the first time was that I have short pudgy everything, and the cut-off valve is in a crappy, unreachable place. I had literally snatch the thing sideways in order to reach the valve, which turned the current into a fountain. Lying in a puddle with live electrical wires millimeters away and water spraying me in the face, I finally managed to close the valve. Since there was a load running at the time, I had to drain the machine before I could do anything else, but I finally got everything unhooked and unwired and out of the hole. It was… well, let’s just say I am glad the people buying this house do not read my blog. God willing, it will hold this time and everything will be fine for a while.

The culprit was spendthrift, the jerk. Cheap always causes problems. In an effort to save $5, my “helper” INSISTED all I needed was a ferrule and a nut for one end of the pipe. Nut, indeed. When he left, things were fine. After the washer moved a little (because I hadn’t bolted it in yet, because I was watching for leaks), the non-reworked end of the pipe came unseated, and the rest is history. I cannot tell you the effort it took to get that stupid pipe to hold the first time, just to get it ON the washer, even. The fix was a $5 hose and some teflon tape, a headache from being on my back for an hour, and very sore legs from hopping up and down to turn off/on power, hunt tools, get towels, etc. By golly, it works now!

Geez, I hate this house.

I know it’s not the house’s fault. It has suffered from the half-a$$ed work done on it many years ago, which is now failing on my watch. Unfortunately, I can’t make the repairs without an income that does more than pay for gas and cat food. That’s about as far as my money goes these days. Still, I wish my mom had stayed put a little longer, had never moved here. She loved it while she had it, though, so I can’t blame her for it, either. I should have moved when she died. I feel like I need her approval to leave. Isn’t that silly? Every time something goes wrong or breaks, I just beat the crap out of myself for still being here, for not fixing it when I had a career. I don’t feel like I deserve to own a house, actually. How can I go to a new town and start over if I am simply a destroyer of dwellings?

Oops! I didn’t mean for this to turn into a rant. I have so much to write, but I don’t want to bore you to tears! Remind me to talk to you about “Black Empowerment Theology,” or maybe reality tv. Bet I could stir up something ugly with either of those little conversation starters.

On a happier note, the babies are starting to recognize me. They turn their little faces up to be rubbed, and cry and crawl toward me when they hear my voice. I guess their hearing is getting better – I suppose they are learning my scent, too. So darned cute.

OK, later. Hope your Tuesday is marvelous and full of love.

-Me

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Thought Stew

Some posts need to be written immediately, and others need to simmer in their own juices to be fully flavored. The problem with simmering is that I have completely forgotten every single thing I was gonna write. You know, cuz I’m retarded like that. Today’s post is gonna be a bunch of brain farts, since I’m too lazy and busy wallowing in the joy that IS my life to write them separately. If ya get tired reading, come back later and finish. I won’t know. Heck, bring a friend if you want, and read it together. OK. Off we go.

***

They’re small, you think. They are sooo good, and they’re small. Just one. More. Besides, they’re SMALL.  Fifteen minutes later, you have eaten an entire 3 oz bag of sugar free candy. DO NOT LAUGH AT THE 3 OZ. This is one of those lessons I just never seem to learn. That 3 oz seems so insignificant, but dear LORD, let me WARN you NOW. Just…DON’T. I woke up at 3am doubled over in pain, and when I rolled over, the only thing I could do was…well… “let it out.” I’m sure the USGS registered it. I can sometimes blame it on the cats, but for them? This would have been an entire colon’s worth of air. Over. And Over. And? OVER. For 6 HOURS. I was still walking around rattling windows when I got up the next morning. And yet, this afternoon? TWO bags of SF gummy bears.  I am SOOOO gonna pay, and it was SOOOOO worth it.

Times like this make me glad I’m single. So much easier than being polite.

***

I have had some bih-ZARRE dreams the last few days. This afternoon I took a nap (mistake) and dreamed I moved into a new apartment. When I finally went upstairs 3 days later, I found a cat’s paradise: toys, furniture, piles of soft towels and beds and stuff. I also had a 6-week-old kitten jump on my shoulder. There were 6 total, just left there. Added to the 12 I already have, that’s…um…that’s…a LOT of CAT. About that time, my (dead) mother came to visit. She walked around and we discovered the house had another half to it, a demolished half that had broken windows and no floors and seemed to open directly onto a street full of drifters and every seedy human-type person you can imagine. She went OFF. I reminded her that I am not exactly rolling in cash, and that SHE hadn’t offered to let me stay with HER. “DON’T YOU THINK I AM BEATING MYSELF UP FOR THAT?!?” she sweetly screamed at the top o’ her lungs. Hah. Good times, those afternoon naps!

The ones I had last night made me want to get up and call someone. Srsly.

I was falling asleep and felt very threatened. There was something in the room with me, and it was hard to wake up. Fast forward to the next few minutes, when I was almost asleep again. I heard my bedroom door click, and I thought, “NO. Please, NO.”  The room got thick, and I tried to scream, but the room just absorbed the sound, as it absorbed the tiny bit of light coming thru the window. My voice was gone. Then something vaguely human, bald, climbed on top of me – I was paralyzed, unable to get free. It was transparent the way heat is as it floats on a highway in summer, but it was heavy… physical, and menacing. I whispered, “Get thee behind me, in the name of Jesus. Get OFF me, in the name of Jesus,” and forced my way out of the thickness of the air, the paralysis, into consciousness.

Whether or not it truly was an attack, I dunno. I know the brain does the paralysis thing in the early stages of sleep, so don’t bother telling me that. The fact that my mind recognized it as demonic makes me wonder. I admit, I did think “so this is what people think is an alien abduction,” the first couple of times last night. I even mentally chastised myself later for not letting them take me, cuz I want ’em to take me some night while I’m driving somewhere and bring me back thin. SRSLY. Wouldn’t that be cool?? To go to bed fat and wake up a NORMAL?? Wow. I haven’t been a normal since I was three. I keep wishing, but the second and third people living in my skin are still here, and there are no odd triangular marks on my neck. Dangit. 

The third one was different. THAT one scared me. I truly thought I was done for when I couldn’t scream.

Gyah. Not funny, I know! Sorry ’bout that, but sheesh. I’ve had the oppressive dream thing before, so I knew what it was, but I have never seen what was coming for me. THAT was new, and when I kept DREAMING it, it freaked me out a bit. I really started to just get up and reset my brain. Reboot. Scroll. But luckily, I fell asleep and dreamed something harmless after the third episode.

Whew. Srsly.

***

I boarded Ivy for the chorus trip I had to take last weekend. I left the other 11 to fend for themselves, but after finding Lily lying on Ivy’s head one morning so she couldn’t breathe, I decided she needed a little more consideration. She meows now. Go figure. Two days in a cage, and she decides to talk. Kittens are so easy. They’d never make it as international spies.

When I got her home, you’d have thought she’d been at Leavenworth for a year. She stopped to sniff the front door, then the sofa, the floor in the dining room, the chair legs, the door frames, the water bowl, everything. She was so happy to be home she couldn’t stand herself, little tail straight up and wiggling the whole time. Next time I have to be gone overnight she’ll be big enough to stay home, but if she weren’t, I’d find a human to take care of her instead. My vets are marvelous, and they loved having her cuz she’s the poster child for terminal cuteness, but she was changed by the experience. I guess that’s what life does, but I DO NOT WANT. Maybe what I DO want is to open a boarding facility of my own. Hmm. Now to win the lottery so that can happen…

***

Dang. Never, EVER buy multiple bags of sugar free jelly beans. They’re so SMALL, see, and so HARD to reSIST.

Run, kitties. Run for your lives.

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Once More, From the Top.

Hey, if you have a sec? Click on the photos in the post below and vote for my babies. I wanna make it to the voting page at least. Click on the cheezburgers to rate them. Thanks.

So last Friday I was invited to lunch. Yeah, I know, my sparkling conversational skillz keep me busy. Anyway, this lunch was supposed to follow a noon choir performance for the local Kiwanis club. I showed up about 15 minutes before I thought it started, but the group was nowhere to be found. I saw the sound equipment, tho, so I figured they were all in a back room somewhere warming up. I sat down in the lobby to wait. And wait. And…wait. I finally asked somebody if she had seen the kids, and she told me, “Oh, their leader sent them off to lunch.”

Grr.

I called, no answer. I called his daughter, no answer. Finally, my phone rang, and he said, “We’re over here at Wendy’s, about to walk back to the hotel. Where are you?” He had left his phone at home, and it “just didn’t cross (his) mind” to borrow his daughter’s phone and call me. It didn’t cross his mind…

*insert ‘Dear God, send me some new friends’ prayer here*

Now, see, for the last month I have been much, much better about not taking things personally, thanks to some righteously good happy pills, but alas, the spell was broken. I couldn’t really say anything when he walked up. He offered a half-hearted apology, like a husband who’s been nagged about putting his feet on the coffee table (I’m sorry you got confused you silly girl! Uh, really sorry!), and I just kinda shook my head and walked marched away (I’m nothing if not self-righteous!). 

I brought this on myself. We spent some great times together last week, and I let my guard down. I know better, really, I do. This is a friendship that blossoms when I am useful to have around, and pretty much withers when I’m not needed, but it’s so hard not to get lost in the fun when it’s good. When it’s good? It’s very, VERY good. Once I reminded myself of my role (patsy, driver-of-the-truck, chorus lap dog), I was able to get past it, but dude. I’m Just. So. Kewl. How is it so easy to forget me?

Oh, well. It’s done, and it will not be the last time I am not considered.  There’s still a week of school left. I just need a new supply of happy pills before it happens again, is all, so I don’t shoot up the post office. Or whatever. Oh, hello, nice homeland security man! What’s that? A threat? Me? Noooo…

I am aware that this sounds like a silly thing to let bother me, but it’s the predictability of it that really ruffles my skirt. Forgetting me was not a big deal. It was just lunch, after all, and he had a lot on his mind. Fries can be all-consuming like that. There’s a lot of this I have left out that would TOTALLY convince you to form a picket line outside his door, but really. Who cares except me? I’m sure you don’t want to know it ALL. This post is mostly for me to vent, to SAY out loud that I HAVE BEEN MISTREATED. PITY ME, dangit. Harumph.   

Tonight? I will be running sound for another concert, and Wednesday, I will be pulling the equipment trailer for his day tour of the elementary schools (with the truck, of course. My teeth aren’t that strong).

See? Told you it’s my own fault. “I’m just a girl who cain’t say no.”

Another thing that’s my fault is the sign that points the sick and wounded of the critter community to my door. “Give me your tired, your homeless, your inflamed uteri…” The wild kitten that eats here has become a woman. Uh…well, you know what I mean. The sick part is that I think the tom that is after her is her daddy. My own father once told me “a hard d*** has no conscience,” and that goes double for cats, apparently. Still. Ew.

I could be wrong about her parentage. There was a more likely candidate around about the time she was born, but I honestly couldn’t tell at the time if that one was really a boy. I’ll just catch whoever I can, and do my best to curb the population explosion. The least I can do is keep it out of my own danged house.

Now that you are thoroughly squicked, you may be on your way.  I am sure there will be more excessive info soon enough.

Later!
 

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Dinner and… a Sugar Coma?

Just for the record, if you come to my house for dinner, and you are, say, allergic to peanuts? I will not serve you a pb&j and say, “just scrape off the peanut butter and eat the jelly side.” If you are watching your carbs, I won’t give you creamy, crusty chicken pot pie and say, “pick out what you can eat.”  It  would never occur to me to invite you to my house and not cook anything you can enjoy without repercussions like, you know, dying.

Apparently, I ask too much.

Friday night I got a phone call from my friend Joe. He was on his way out of town. “Hey! The girls are expecting you! I have to go do something more interesting than being with you, so I won’t be there, but give ’em a call and go on out for dinner!” Or something close. You know. I should say at this point that I wasn’t aware of being expected anywhere. There was a brief mention of getting together, but I’ve learned from extensive experience that Joe has great clouds of smoke blowing out of his arse, and I don’t listen to him any more. I go where he wants me to be only when he calls me and says he’s either there or on the way.

Ok, so. I called Joe’s wife, Emily. “Hey! Yeah. Joe told me Wednesday he had invited you for dinner tonight! Come on over! We’re having (something I cannot eat).”

*crickets* “Uh, I can’t eat that.” *more crickets* “Oh. Uh, well, I have (three more items which I cannot have).” “Nope, sorry…” “Well, what can I cook for you then?”  “I… um… well, I’ll just pick something up in town.” “OK! Come on when you get something.”

*rilly loud crickets as I hung up the phone* I was invited for DINNER. Three days ago. Um. Normally that comes WITH food, in my past experiences with such things, and it’s not as if Emily didn’t know I was coming.  I decided that since my diet is almost impossible to accommodate without going into a restaurant and sitting down to order, I would just eat what Emily had, and deal with the consequences. She already had a casserole in the oven, and I wasn’t going to ask her to cook something else just for me. That would be rude. When I got there, there was a creamy, crusty chicken pot pie with no veggies in it, just chicken and cream of chicken soup-type stuff. She told me to pick out what I could eat, which meant that I would have had about 6 little cubes of chicken on my plate. Even those would have been smothered in starch, my enemy (my blood sugar has taken a turn for the hateful), so I just said to heck with it and ate like a normal human. It was so darned good, I didn’t care what my blood was doing, as long as it wasn’t boiling or turning to mercury.  In her defense, she had opened a can of green beans and warmed them in a boiler. No salt, no seasonings of any kind. Just beans. Warm beans. I can eat beans, but ew.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. Joe called again, wanting to do the project we’d planned to do Friday night, before something more interesting came up. I went back to his place, and pretty soon it was dinnertime. Emily said, “Ok, everybody. We have rice, ravioli, or chicken pot pie. What would you like?” Again. They KNEW I WAS COMING. I told Emily Friday, “See you TOMORROW.” Luckily she had some hot dogs she was willing to bake for me, so I upped my cholesterol, but kept my blood sugar happy. Cuz really, what’s the point of hardened arteries if your blood sugar is high?

I’m not trying to be petty or picky or witchy or any other *itchy. I knew that I could have taken my own dinner tonight. Really, I did, and I knew I should have, so I am not upset or really even bothered much. It just struck me as odd. Maybe I’m stupid. Tell me. Emily has no idea I had any of those thoughts, and I was even able to suggest a bouillon cube for the beans when we were talking tonight. She said, “My kids don’t eat green beans. I don’t do anything to them, not even salt or pepper. Maybe that’s why they don’t eat more of ’em.” 

DUH. Uh, I mean, uh, Ahem. 

“Have you ever tried chicken bouillon in them?” I had to try. For the record? She cooks broccoli the same way. Dumps it in a boiler with some water. DOUBLE EW. Gots tuh have sum salt on DAT. Cheese canNOT make up for unsalted boiled broccoli. Criminy.

I love Joe and Emily. They are the closest thing to family I have without counting the cousins who only call when they want something. I just think sometimes their level of oblivion is beyond comprehension. Again, my expectations are most likely too high. I don’t think so, but I admit I’m a bit of a freak, and could be wrong.

I’ve talked with other people about the fact that it’s hard to find friends who can remember you exist when you leave their presence, and it seems like that’s a pretty common problem. I see lots of blogs where women are looking for a true friend or two. If everybody wants friends like that, why is it nobody can find them? Seems to me like the desire should create the supply.  I think about my friends ALL the TIME. I wonder where they are, how their days are going, whether or not they resolved that issue with the boss or the bank or UPS. I guess it’s too much to ask for 30 seconds of the same from them.

But I don’t think so.

Gosh, that sounds harsh, huh? How about we end this with a cute moment? Joe’s daughters were singing “Winter Wonderland” tonight, and when they got to “In the meadow we can build a snowman and pretend that he is Parson Brown,” one of them turned to the other and said, “I thought it was ‘pretend he’s Charlie Brown.'” We all cracked up at that. She’s the most blonde brunette I have ever met, and it totally made sense she would think “Charlie.”

Anyway. Happy Thanksgiving. May your holiday be full of starchy goodness and tryptophan, and in honor of Charlie Brown, popcorn and toast.

Oh, and great friends and family. Yeah. That, too.

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It’s Always Brattiest Before the Repairman

Larry and Curly came to my house today to fix my washing machine. Moe stayed at the shop. He’s the brains of the bunch, and he was most DEFINITELY not here today. By way of backstory, I was getting ready to go out of town last Thursday, mistake #1, and the load of very necessary clothes I was washing was still dripping when I took ’em out. This washer and I have history, baby. It’s practically an antique, minus the little rubber rollers and a granny hanging the sheets out in the sun. It has already been training ground for my considerable mechanical skills three times (buffing my imaginary girl scout badges proudly). I knew this one was not something I wanted to tackle, mainly because it involved getting on the FLOOR, which I am not built to do. OK, down, maybe, but the getting up? Sell popcorn, ‘cuz that part is always a show.

So I called a repairman.

I hate repairmen. They are really nice guys, I am sure, and I’ve even gotten hot over one or two. Ahem. But. I have just enough testosterone in my blood to be competitive. I totally get why one of my friends will break down an appliance to the paint to fix it before he calls somebody: it’s pride, finding out that you just spent 100 bucks on a 10 dollar repair, if only you’d TRIED. And you just KNOW the guy is thinking, “LOSER.  My DOG coulda fixed this.” Anyway. Back to the story at hand.

I showed Larry and Curly to the laundry room and left them to their job. I hesitated to leave them when I saw them looking all over the machine for screws or clips they could remove to get into the washer, but they assured me they knew what they were doing. I just couldn’t resist, though, and when I went back in there 15 minutes later after listening to much ado and even more grunting and scraping noises, I asked, “Well, is it fixable?”

 “Oh, we haven’t gotten into it yet.”

Hm.

They had, however, removed every visible screw and clip they could find, trying to get the top off. The top doesn’t COME off. They had even removed the hinges that held the timer housing on – you know, the part with the knobs? It’s supposed to tilt back when you take out two screws. Curly was holding it, trying to figure out how to pull it off.

I swear, my DOG coulda fixed that.

I knew how to get in it. Wanna know how? Google. Three minutes and a brief read, and I had the thing open in another 3. When I saw L&C had the right clips out, at least, I grabbed the machine and pulled forward, and the whole thing opened up, just like they wanted. They kinda just looked at me, totally punked. I walked away, cuz, really. even a Larry needs his dignity, right? Ten minutes later they strutted out and told me I needed a $15 part, and they’d be back tomorrow. Dandy.

I wanted to call the store and tell them they hire morons, but I didn’t, mostly because I wouldn’t want someone to do that to ME when I look stupid. Since I am stupid a LOT, I am thinking I have dodged my share of bullets, so I passed the power along. I wouldn’t want them to know I called them Stooges. Of course, they MIGHT be flattered by that, in which case I would have wasted my breath anyway.

The trip was wonderful for everyone involved, except me. I went into it with a chip on my shoulder, and spent most of it seething. I’m not good at hiding my feelings: when I am quiet, the whole world knows mama ain’t happy. I don’t have to say a thing. I was provoked Saturday night, so I made a couple of sarcastic remarks, but what REALLY made me mad was that they couldn’t have cared less. The next morning, everybody was all happy and cheery, while I nursed puffy eyes from crying myself to sleep. I was polite. I know I am childish and selfish and petty. I am also disrespected by the people I love. I have not learned to let go of that anger, to understand that’s just they way it is, and be ok with it. A duck I am not. Wait. I DO understand. That’s part of the problem. I don’t see any of it ever changing without just absolutely breaking away and moving. That makes me sad, especially since I have no assurances that I could start fresh and achieve better results. The grass may be greener, but it could also just be painted, like those stupid Christmas trees at tree farms. 

For the record? The cause of this immense mess in my head WAS petty, and I could have avoided my discomfort with a simple shift of perspective. I just wish that sometimes I could be accommodated, instead of always being the one doing the bending. It got the best of me this week.  I have value, too, even if I am just one malleable person with no life and even less hope, and Larry and Curly to lean on for my appliance repair needs.

ANYWAY. See how I dragged you into my drama again? I am skilled like that. *Showing you my gold “Drama Queen badge stuck on my sleeve* Go forth. Surf. Love somebody.

You deserve it.

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When the Bough Breaks

The worst part about being right all the time is being right all the time. Every now and then I’d really like the opportunity to be surprised by my own happiness. I’d love to have more of it, I mean, and suprise myself by not facing doom and despair. I live in the town of Melo Dra, MA, obviously.  

My loser designation proved to be true Wednesday when I totally made a fool out of myself in an online class. I lost my place, got flustered, read the wrong part of the report… it really could NOT have gone worse. It couldn’t have been the person who called me three times in the middle of my presentation that caused it, not at all, but it was truly a mess. If I could have screamed, “DO OVER,” I would have. Sometimes you just have to cut and run. I am such a perfectionist that I can. NOT. tolerate my own failure, especially if I know it could have been avoided, and this time it could have. I was given wrong information about what I needed to do… and that phone thing (although other people had trains go by during their stuff, they didn’t have THREE trains go by)… so, see, by it not being MY FAULT, I am even madder. No, I didn’t answer the phone. In retrospect, I should have, and could have simply unplugged my mic to do it, but I didn’t think quickly enough. So. I was left to cry half the night in embarrassment.

That brought up all sorts of issues, like, “Where’s the closest place I can get ice cream?” and  “Where can I get the most fried chicken for ten bucks?” and “Why can’t I BELONG to somebody? I just want to have somebody to help me through the frustration, to tell me it doesn’t matter.” I realize of course that the frustration is why I DON’T belong to anyone. Who would want a girl who gets so wigged out over NOTHING? Nobody, that’s who.

I know, I know. I’m smart and funny and all that crap, and I TOTALLY conquered my stalking issues without therapy, and I have great taste in meat. A hug would still be nice once in a while.

As I sat on my sofa, weeping at the ceiling, Harry, who has stopped the crying now that he’s fed and happy, hopped up on my chest and stared into my eyes. He likes the blinking, I guess, but he put his little paw up to my eye and patted… wiped, really, and brushed off the tears rolling down my cheeks. He was so earnest, so attentive, unblinking.

Maybe I do belong to somebody after all.

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Like a Hole in the Head

Guess. Go on, guess. Besides the obvious “more corpses,” try to guess the one thing I do not need, and no cracks about my butt. Ha. If you said, “a man!” you’d be terribly, cruelly wrong. If, however, you said, “another hunter!” you, shiny pretty person, win the brass ring.

I stepped out to go to church yesterday and heard a MONSTROUS, pathetic, “OH DEAR LORD SAVE ME FROM THE HUNS” caterwauling from across the road. I think I heard it before I opened the door, but if I didn’t, it was just ‘cuz I was distracted. It was LOUD, louder than Fig. In fact, I wondered if Fig had returned to me, this kitten was such a talker. Check out the flickr box at the right for pics of this most beautiful, squirmy little boy. When I got back from church he was on my porch, so I knew I was doomed.

I’ve never had trouble determining gender on a cat, but this is a little fuzzbutt, so it took me a while to be sure. I am PRETTY sure… mostly. Sorta. His name will be Harry, because I’m original that way. (If you don’t get that, you should seriously consider getting out from under that rock. Dude.) If Harry turns out to be a Lily when he finally gets to the vet, that’s ok, too.

Harry is well-fed, loving, tame, flea-less, and litter trained. I went around the neighborhood to see if (please, God) he had wandered away from home, but had no luck finding an owner. He is a member of the Insane household now. I just don’t understand how somebody could go to the trouble of taking such good care of him and then just toss him out of a car into somebody’s yard. I thank them for not killing him or depriving him, but gosh. Get the mama fixed, for goodness’ sake.

Harry is a track star.  His specialty is the 36″ hurdle, where he starts on the sofa behind me and lands smack in the middle of the laptop while I’m working. It’s like sitting on the porch and having a tree frog land on your forehead: no warning, just having the living crap scared out of you, and all that hard work getting the skid marks out of your shorts gone to waste. He has a voice like a Doppler effect, or the back end of an air raid siren. His purr is that of a finely-tuned Harley, loud, steady, and window-rattling.

Harry is also studying to be a master pastry chef: he NEVER. STOPS. KNEADING.

The biggest challenge for me? He thinks my moles are nipples. Need I say more?

Oh, well. Motherhood is what I do, I guess. Just when I think the family is complete…

Happy Monday!

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