Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.

Warning: descriptive female issues in this post.


"What is it?"

"Day Eight apparently."

"Are we in the playoffs?"

My baleful eyes could burn through steel.

"I am BLEEDING out.  I was done.  The Diva Cup was empty."

David winces in naive male sympathy/horrified visualization.  "And now the cup runneth over?"

"No the cup does not runneth over because I wasn't wearing the frickin' cup because my body is a lying liar pants and can't make its peri-menopausal mind up!  IT WAS EMPTY THIS MORNING!!!"   I raise my fist to the 2nd floor bathroom where the Diva Cup is now residing.  "YOU WERE EMPTY!!!"

I ease off the couch and look down - at least there's no blood on the upholstery.  I carefully glide my way to the bathroom, crossing my fingers that I'll only have to wash my panties, not the jeans as well.  I don't know why washing jeans seems to add insult to injury, but it does.

I stand before the toilet, Keigeling every muscle in my pelvis.  I take a deep breath before undoing my belt.  As soon as I sit to examine the undergarment damage, I feel another deluge.

"COME ON!!!"

"Love?  You okay?"

"They're the size of TOONIES!"

"What are?"

"The blood clots that just left my body."  A blinding cramp hits me.  I don't know if the blood loss is actually making me dizzy or if it's having witnessed most of my uterine lining leave my body.

David pipes up from the living room.  "It could be worse."


"They could be blood clots the size of tunas."

Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.  Without laughter my sanity would have abandoned me years ago.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

The alarm cat





Oh, for the love of...

Meow... meow...meow...meeeeeeeeeeeowwwwwww.

I look over at the clock.  7:17.  What the?   CRAP!  I stagger out of bed, open the bedroom door and face Minuit - the most irritated cat in the galaxy.  She squints at me with her perpetually rheumy eyes.


We have one of those false dawn clocks.   It begins emitting a relaxed glowing light about 35 minutes before you actually have to wake up.  The glow eventually gets brighter and brighter and then the tweeting bird sounds go off.  (I'm not even kidding.)  This morning? No glowing light.  No tweeting birds.

"David."  I shake his shoulder.  "David. Love.  It's 7:17."

He sits bolt upright in bed, wild-eyed.  "What the?!?"

"You didn't set your alarm love."

"Hey I know, I didn't set my alarm."  He's blinking up at me - a dazed, bed-headed owlet.

"You have to thank Minuit, she was our alarm."

Minuit is standing in the doorway scowling at us.  David exits the bed.  "Thank you Min..."   Perpetually terrified by any motion in the household, Minuit tears across the upper landing before hiding under Rissa's bed. "...nuit."

Rissa is in the bathroom getting ready for school.

"Daddy didn't set his alarm," I say, yawning while wiping the sleep guck from my eyes.  I grab my toothbrush.  "Minuit's the hero - she woke us up."

"I wondered what she was complaining about," says Rissa.  She looks over at her bedroom doorway where Minuit is now skulking.  "Good job Alarm Cat."

David, clad in work wear, is doing the Frankenstein shamble to the bathroom.  Minuit immediately bolts back under Rissa's bed.

Standing in the bathroom doorway, David runs his hands through his hair.  His hair is slightly greasy and up in all directions. "Aw man!  I was supposed to have a shower this morning." 

I hand him the baby powder.  "You'll have to powder it up love."

"Right."  He dumps about 1/4 of a cup of lavender-scented baby powder into his hand and rubs them together before dragging his hands through his hair.  Rissa and I look at him and look at each other.  David appears to have tripped and fallen into a kilo of coke - powder on his collar, the front of his shirt, under his nose, on his forehead.  His hair is covered.

I head tilt, indicating the faux cocaine fallout zone. "Dude.  You're Bright Lights Big Citying it."

"Well I can't see in the mirror, you girls are taking up all the...  Sweet!  I look like Doc Brown."

He keeps rubbing the powder through his hair.  I grab a facecloth so that he wipe up the excess from his clothing and face.

"Nothing like Cocaine Thursday," David says, blending in the last of the power into his hair.

"It's perfect after Hump Day," Rissa agrees.