Cat Olympics

CRASH!!!

"What the???"  David, Rissa and I all turn towards the laundry closet, from whence the sound emerged.  When had we docked a ship back there and how had it broken free from its moorings?

"What was that?"  We all look at each other, on the cusp of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spocking  for who gets to discover the damage.

"I'll go," I offer.  I creep towards the area of the ruckus.  The box that holds the dryer sheets and lingerie bags is now on the floor - the accordion drying rack is askew on the wall.   On the stacked dryer sits Lola, the smallest of our cats.  The dryer sits at least 6.5 feet off the floor.  The upright freezer from which she obviously jumped, upon which the laundry accouterments rested, is at least 5.5 feet high (165cm).

"How did you get up there?" I ask.

 "Is that Lola?"

"It is.  She's on the dryer."

"How did she get up there?"

"I think she jumped up onto the freezer and then bounced from there to the dryer."  I look at Lola  "Is that what you did?" I ask.

Lola remains coquettishly silent.  She's our cat who can jump straight up in the air and then insert herself perpendicularly at that ascent.  No scrabbling, no clawing. It's kinda spectacular. 

Or at least I thought it was until I saw this video.  If Lola has a shot at the 2018 Cat Olympics we're going to have to up her game.

I need a groomer...

WARNING: This post doesn't pull any punches.

I need a table set up in my home, under the most natural light possible, where a team of  aestheticians clad in neuroscientist's glasses can groom me every morning. This finding  hair on my face, chin, neck, legs - breasts - at inopportune moments has got to stop.

Hairy breasts throw a girl's groove off. Particularly because the discovery of said hair usually occurs after a boisterous lovemaking session where David has spent a great deal of focus, shall we say, on the breastal region. I'll head to the bathroom to freshen up before sleep and I'll see a looooooooong black hair on my breast. I'm not saying there's enough to floss with, but something a centimeter long does draw one's attention, particularly when I could swear that the hair hadn't been there the day before.

Ditto with the sudden beach side/pool side realization that the hair on the backs of my thighs could have me placed in a "Switched at Birth?" ad for a yeti.

"It's lovely to meet you Prime Minister.  Let us retire to the conservatory for our discussion on climate change ."  Passing the elaborate Rococo mirror in the hall, I notice... Oh MY GOD, I have a mustache - a full on - MUSTACHE, that is only visible in natural light!!!

Just this morning in the bathroom Rissa says,  "Whoa, hold on a sec..." before she then proceeds to pluck a long black hair from my spine.

"How am I supposed to check my frickin' BACK for hair?"

She shrugs.

"You do realize that your going to have a full-time position making me less hirsute when I'm elderly and mostly blind, right?"

"I kind of figured."

"I should get the paperwork on that started."

***

Somewhat related tangent: How do porn stars manage? Sure, they're probably waxed to within an inch of their lives, but why don't they end up with ingrown hairs? Or heat rash? On any given waxing/epiladying adventure, I'll develop at least one ingrown hair, which, when you're as fish-belly white as I am, becomes a throbbing red beacon upon my thigh/breast/neck. Do porn stars have their own team of full-time aestheticians, or am I just over-thinking what porn watchers are really there for?