THE PANIC LIAR

David sucks at stopping conversations. When he has the opportunity to make a declarative statement that will allow him to be able to walk away? He can't do it.

Thursday, March 12, right before it was announced that schools would be closed and the shit had yet to actually hit the fan, David was antsy to get home. He was in rehearsals with his students for the student-written, one-act play festival. They rehearsed three afternoons a week. At 4:30 p.m., the last day before March Break, with the exuberance of teenage drama kids, they were champing at the bit to go through their plays "Just one more time, Sir?"

"Guys," said David. "No can do. I've gotta get home." (This is where he should have stopped talking.)  "It's my turn to cook dinner. It's Perogy Night!"

(There is no Perogy Night.)

"Perogy Night?!?  Really?  Cool! Do you make them yourself?"

"I do!" (He doesn't.)

"Really? The dough and everything?"

"Oh yeah!" (Nope.)

"How do you cook them?"

"Oh, I boil them up first and then like to brown them in a frying pan." (Really? You don't just take them from the freezer and nuke them and brown them?)

"What are you filling them with tonight?"

"Cheddar, bacon and chive." (And chive?!?)

David is a panic liar. He can't do small talk. He invariably says something interesting enough that there will always be follow up questions. Witness what happened when he bought a suit.

When I asked him how the perogy debacle had manifested, he said, "I didn't want to tell them that the thought of having to watch them rehearse it one more time would make my brain implode."

"You were trying to be nice."

"I was trying to be nice."

"That's a good thing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Next time though, don't tell them that you have to go home to feed your alpaca."

I HAVE BECOME A MEME

"I've decided against cutting my own hair," I say before heading upstairs to have my shower.

"That's probably a wise decision," says Rissa.

"Yeah, I can just wait until social distancing is over."

"Good choice."

I'm not sure exactly what happens before I make it into the shower, but somehow there are scissors in my hand.

I remember going into my bedroom, and divesting myself of all my sweaty exercise clothes. I know that I walk to the bathroom and remove my Fitbit. I start to pull the hair elastic from my hair... It has to be the hair elastic. I touch that hair elastic and the subliminal messaging embedded in the Unicorn Cut and Double Unicorn hair cutting videos that I'd been consuming over the weekend compel me. I am a fucking sleeper agent!

I tie my (Dry! What for the love of Vidal Sassoon possessed me to do this dry?) hair off with the hair elastic and cut.





I pull out the hair elastic to see the results.

"Uh-oh."

"You okay up there?" asks Rissa.

"Um... yeah...?"

"Heather?" Now David is calling upstairs. "You okay?"

"Yes," I say faintly, looking at the sharp line of hair that is now my first layer.

"Heather!!"

"I'm okay," I murmur, transfixed by my reflection.

"We're coming up!!"

I am standing naked and dazed in front of the mirror.

"Ma," says Rissa. "When we call you, you have to answer right away. You need to let us know you're okay." (She may be referring to previous incidences of me saying "Uh-oh" before I fall over.) Her shoulders slump and she gives me the resigned-child look. "Did you just cut your own hair?"

"I just cut my own hair."

"Ma, you just said..."

"Oh, thank God," says David as he hits the doorway, Kramer-like. Always my biggest cheerleader, he says, "Hey that's not..." I turn to face him with my dry-cut Mullet. "...terrible."

"I don't know what happened," I say, staring at the scissors. "I just don't know."

"Oh, Ma," says Rissa.

"How is it that this part is soooooo short, but this, is still soooooo long?"

"You can always take a bit more off the bottom to even it out," says Rissa. She puts my hair over my shoulders. "Just take this much more off." She indicates a couple of inches. "No, no wait, let me actually comb a part so that we're doing this scientific-like."

"I just gave myself a Unicorn Cut, can science really help me?"

"It'll be fine."

I cut another two inches from the bottom layer and then I use the twirl and cut method that I think I've seen my stylist use to get rid of the choppiness.

I hop into the shower and feel the bulk of hair at the top and the lack of bulk at the bottom. Even my hands know I've done a bad, bad thing.

Strangely though, when I towel dry my hair and throw some detangler in, it's not that bad. Oh, I'd be completely fucked if I tried to wear it straight - but curly? Curly, I might just be able to con people into believing nothing has happened. #badpandemicdecisions

I AM NEITHER PREGNANT NOR HAVE I WET MYSELF

When you dress for the day, you think to yourself, 

I feel so confident in my pseudo retro-look! My posture is something my mother can be proud of! My shoes match my skirt almost exactly!!!

And then you see photographic evidence of yourself from that day...

Ladies and Germs I give you Heather from a January 2020 event.

How far along am I? That's a great question Susan.

Why yes, I AM Ralph Kramden's sister!

"Fold and Shadow in the Skirt"

And then it struck me, This is not the first time I've created a post like this:
http://whatthepoohdude.blogspot.com/2012/12/never-take-pictures-of-me-when-im.html

CATMAGEDDON!!!

Sure, the sound of cats having sex is impressive, but nothing can beat the noise of cats out to kill each other. That alarm clock has you leaping from your bed, blood-pressure skyrocketing, arms gesticulating wildly before your feet even hit the floor. Special Ops units use this sound to train their soldiers to be ALERT.

We have three cats: Minuit (10 lb black female, 13 years of age, crotchety, still suffering the effects from temporary paralysis of her back end 6 years ago, frequent vomiter), Steve (18 lb orange tom, 9 years of age, goofy, snuggly and terrified of Minuit) and Lola (8 lb black female, 9 years of age, the Audrey Hepburn of cats, apart from her habit of over grooming her nether regions).

About a year ago, Minuit started to dip her toe in the pool of feline dementia. Every three weeks or so, she'd hiss, growl and generally sound like the world was going to end - but only at Steve. She'd spend 65% of the day cuddling with Steve and Lola and 35% of her day wanting to kill Steve before then grooming him (literally) for his next attack.

Three weeks ago that pattern dramatically shifted. Minuit now attacks Steve daily - sometimes several times a day. Because her back end still doesn't work well, Steve has the easy escape of jumping higher than she can to get away, but once in his 'safe place,' she won't let him leave.

It was time to take action. With dread I took her to the vet, suspecting that it might be time for Minuit to shuffle off this mortal coil.

You see, we've got this rule. Each of our pets gets one round of veterinary extraordinary measures. One near-death experience that costs us several grand in vet fees. They all get one. After that, if the bill is more than $500, I call my friend Narda, our Pet Decision Proxy, and she says, "Put it down."

Minuit's extraordinary measures occurred 6 years ago when she was inexplicably paralyzed from her mid-back down. We did the express blood-work, we did the x-rays, she stayed overnight and in the end, short of exploratory surgery, the vet didn't know what had happened.

I was frank with Minuit. "Dude, you won't be able to use a litter box. I'm not that selfless. I am not shutting off a room in which you may languish and use as your personal litter box. It's not going to happen. You've gotta get your shit together." 

I may have used a gesture across my throat with an accompanying sound effect. Minuit got up, stumped her way out of the cat carrier, meowed determinedly at me, turned around and stumped her way back into the carrier. She was totally channeling John Young from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "I'm not dead yet!"

She'd had her reprieve and she mostly came back from the paralysis, so it was good that we hadn't offed her. But now, now that she was losing her mind? My hopes weren't high for her returning home after seeing the vet. Our incredible vet looked at Minuit, and gave me my options. We decided on express bloodwork and urinalysis, and I'd leave her at the vet's so that they could get a urine sample. 

After having been away for 3 hours, when Minuit came out of the cat carrier the other two cats lost their minds. She smelled different. Cats don't like different. Steve attacked Minuit, Minuit hit back, Lola screamed at Steve, who in turned looked at me as if to say "WTF??" It made what we'd been dealing with before the vet trip look like child's play. Dozens of cat skirmishes lasted well into the night.

It turns out Minuit has thyroid disease. That makes two of us. (She's hyper and I'm hypo, but at least we now have a commonality of language and can commiserate.) I was to give her liquid thyroid meds and capsule anti-anxiety meds which could be sprinkled in her food. I managed to wrangle Minuit to successfully give her the liquid meds. The powder from the capsules? Another story.

Day One: I mix the capsule with mushed up wet cat food. Minuit eats it. 3:00 a.m. we awaken to Minuit attacking Steve.

Day Two: I mix the capsule with mushed up wet cat food. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add sour cream. She eats it. 2:00 a.m. we awaken to Minuit attacking Steve.

Day Three: I mix the capsule with sour cream. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add grated cheese. She eats it. 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m. she attacks Steve.

Day Four: I mix the capsule with grated cheese. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add fish oil. She eats it. She still attacks Steve.

Day Five: I visit the local pet supply store and stock up on homeopathic Bio-Calm liquid, high end cats foods and purees. I mix the capsule with high end wet cat food. Minuit refuses to eat it. Steve eats it. She attacks Steve. I give all the cats Bio-calm liquid in high end puree. Minuit attacks Steve - Steve growls.

Day Six: I give the other two cats Bio-calm liquid in cat food puree. For Minuit I just shove the anti-anxiety capsule down her throat. After which, she can barely walk. Her pupils are the size of saucers. She still wants to kill Steve, but now Steve is growling and whacking her on the head as it's been three weeks of this shit and he's had enough.

***

Day Fourteen: Everyone gets Bio-Calm liquid in various doses, twice a day. We visit the pet store and get Animal Rescue Remedy to drop in their water. I enjoy bourbon. David has several glasses of wine. Minor cat skirmishes can be heard, but we don't care as much. I think we might be able to...

Oh for the love of... 

"Get off of her! You! Quit hitting her! Minuit! Minuit! Let go of Lola!"

A clump of Lola's fur sticking out her mouth, Minuit looks at me all innocent-like. Steve is lying next to the piano completely content not to be Minuit's victim this time. Lola has doubled her body size in fur puff. I calmly reach for the Animal Rescue, dropping it into my palm before smoothing it all over all three cats. I look at the bottle, drop more into my palm and then rub my own face. In the last 10 minutes there have been no fights. Of course all three cats are in different rooms and it's not near feeding time, nor the middle of the night, but I'm calling this a success. 

"David? Do you want me to rub you with this too? I think it might be helping."

Surviving your toddler's cold

There he is, seated on the love-seat next to the kitchen. In his striped onesie. Trying to blow his nose.

"Morning love," I say.

"Borning," he manages. He is adorable.

"You hungry?"

"Yeb, pleebe."

"How about some eggs?"

He nods sadly. "Pleebe." Poor guy looks so exhausted. I know that he didn't sleep well last night. I ruffle his hair.

I make him a fried egg on toast and bring him a glass of O.J. to wash it down.

"You good, love?"

"Yeb. Dank you."

I turn to plate my own breakfast.

"Oh... doh." He sounds like he's about to cry.

"What is it?"

He looks down at the front of his onesie. "I drobbed egg on me."

Sure enough there's a trail of runny yolk down his chest.  "It's okay love. I'll get you a cloth."  I grab one from the drawer and wet it.

"I'b a toddler," he says as I start to wipe off the yolk.

It is now official. My 46 year-old husband, in his striped onesie, does not have a "Man Cold," he has a "TODDLER COLD."