Thou Peevish Sheep!

Meeeeh...

Yesterday morning...

David had been looking forward to sleeping in.  15 more minutes of it.  He wasn't carpooling because of an after-school literacy meeting.  He set the alarm in anticipatory joy -  there may have been some contented chortling and 'nom, nom, nom' noises as he snuggled into the bed.  Then, the cats fucked it all up.

Rissa got up before we did, but didn't feed the cats.  This had the cats looking for people in the house who would feed them.  Launching themselves onto the bed, they began their own version of an intricate Bollywood dance number.  David, doesn't enjoy cat dance at the best of times, less so when he thinks he should be sleeping in.  There may have been some hurtling of the cats off the bed, perhaps propelled by under-the-blankets feet, followed by some growling and stomping on David's part to get them out of the room.  Then a door might have been slammed.  Grumbling ensued and not the under-the-breath kind.  After two minutes of this, he left the bed and STOMPED down the hall.

What you need to understand is that we are emotional vampires in our house - we suck up the energy of others around us.  We then magnify that energy and spit it out onto unsuspecting civilians.

David was in a mood, ergo I was too.  And I already wasn't thrilled to be woken up by violent kicking followed by doors slamming.  What with Hurricane Sandy being en route, the barometric pressure was wreaking havoc with my head.  I was hoping to stagger to the bathroom, dope myself up and sleep the morning away.  And now?  Now I was up.  And worse, my stomach thought it was time to be up so I needed to eat.  So I STOMPED down the stairs.

And there was poor Rissa, minding her own business with two stompy parents grumbling and growling and having yet to even said good morning to each other on account of the fact that David was convinced that the cats should be thrown into a bag and then into a box and that box should be thrown into Lake Ontario; (it would never happen PETA - so re-fucking-lax, and un-twist your panties!)  and I was mad because instead of him asking me to do something about it he just got all stompy and slammy.

By the time I told Rissa that she couldn't wear her brand new ballet flats to school in the rain, she was ready to burst into tears.  I managed to turn her around by reminding her that her rain boots have polka-dots on them and that's ALWAYS a good thing to have on your feet. Then she got into the spirit herself.   She found a pair of knee high rainbow socks to wear underneath the polka-dotted rain boots,  and put on her stylish navy rain jacket - with belt.  Soon after, via email, David and I apologized for our peevish sheep attitudes and, at the end of the day, we all helped make dinner together.  Long-standing angry grudges averted.

Bulemic Kitties...

I'm not sure if it's the worst sound that I've ever woken to, but it's in the top three*...  All toasty warm - sleeping in past 8:00 a.m. on a weekend...  Someone else in the house has fed the felines...  Dozing, thinking of delicious things that I might do to my spouse, when I hear this:

guh, guh, guh, guh, guh, HUYAAACK!    

The sound of a cat getting ready to hurl its breakfast on my duvet.  I bolt straight up in bed, the sudden movement terrifies the gagging cat, it departs the bed,  and leaves the resulting pukage on the hall carpet. 

It's Minuit, our oldest and fattest cat.  She eats too fast.  She maows down on her kibble like its the last food she'll ever see and then regurgitates it, usually in a place where you'll be stepping with a bare foot.  For a while there, we had a golf ball we kept in her food dish, you know, to slow her eating down, but we recently had a toddler in the house who started playing with it and it disappeared.  The golf ball, not the toddler.  For sure I'd know if there was a lost toddler in the house.  They're noisy, the little boogers.  And at the very least, the toddler's mother probably would have come looking for it.

Food is a motivator for all three of our beasts.  Every morning at 6:25 a.m. they meow and dance all over you until you get up to feed them.  The youngest, Steve & Lola, GALLOP down the hall in some sort of Cirque du Soleil choreographed gymnastics and hurl themselves down the back stairs - trying to break the sound barrier.  Minuit stumps her way down the hall and ba-doomps down the stairs (she can't move too fast or she'll just become a black, furry, stunt-cat ball).  The three then mew and yowl as if they will most certainly die before you manage to fill their food bowls.

At dinner time they get more creative.  Steve will start pushing shit off my desk to get my attention: pencils, cd cases, carefully stacked piles of paper.  Lola usually stands on the back of David's chair and shoves at him with her cat elbows.  Minuit is an Achilles Tendon nipper.

When they are NOT begging for food, they are perfectly lovely beasts.  They are the beasts who warm the very cockles of my heart.  They are the beasts who purr loudly as they snuggle down under the blankets, the beasts who lovingly head butt you before palpating your lap and settling in for a cat nap in front of the fire.  I'm an animal person in general.  A cat person in particular.  Sometimes to the detriment of my health.

see http://whatthepoohdude.blogspot.ca/2012/07/dont-cuddle-feral-kittens.html

Yesterday we went to Rissa's friend's farm and I was informed that there were 12 kittens in the barn.  Her friend's dad said we could take home as many kittens as we could carry!!!  I looked at David with ecstatic, pleading baby blues, my eyelashes fluttering.  Telepathically I promised him ANYTHING he wanted. 

"No way.  Nuh-unh.  No more cats.  You will just have to come here and play with them in the barn."

I have no problem with that.


*Waking to a toddler with the barking seal cough of croup IS worse.  I know this because the last time I heard it was almost a decade ago and just the memory of it throws me right back to driving to the hospital in the dead of winter trying to keep it together so that my 2 year-old didn't see her mother panic. 

Upper body suckage...

So the other day after my walk, I had a small reserve of energy and I thought that I'd mow the lawn.  David usually does it but I was thinking I'd get major spouse points if I did it for him.  Except  I couldn't start it.  I tried like 10 freaking times to yank the starter thingie.  Nothing.  And now both my arms were strained on account of the fact that I tried with my left arm when my right arm couldn't do it.

Why I would think to even try my left arm, when my right arm is OBVIOUSLY the stronger one, I don't know.  I could have plugged in the electric mower, but that is a real pain in the ass.  Of course now thinking about it, I'm feeling guilty for not having tried it, but I almost always  mow over the cord, which even I know is bad.

Can they (whomever 'they' are) not have a gas-powered mower that you don't have to dislocate your shoulder to start?  I hate to say it, but can they not make a girlie mower?  I mean, I'm not some frail little flower here.  I actually HAVE arm muscles.  I can do pushups (real ones) and everything.  I'm one of those girls folks refer to as "STRONG LIKE BULL."  I can heft things.  (As long as I'm lifting with my legs too, you know, so my lower back doesn't go out and I don't displace a rib.)

So I messaged David and he said "Did you hold the lever down?"  And I thought AH-HAH!  That must be it!  I didn't hold the emergency release lever down.  So I  went out and tried again, holding the emergency release lever down...  and...  NOTHING!!!  (Why you need to hold that down while you're mowing doesn't even make sense to me.)  Now the slight strain on my arms had morphed into real strain.  And I was getting stressed about it too, so now my angina kicked in.  So then I needed to have a rusty nail and lie down for a bit.

And then of course, David came home and he could just do it - ZIP BOOM - because he's a man and stupid men have more stupid upper body strength (by and large) than women.  I'm not being a dismissive of feminine strength here girls, I mean, maybe there are tonnes of you out there who have crazy-ass upper body strength and awe the general populace when you're called in to tighten lugnuts for your neighbours and such.  I'm wallowing in my own personal physical ineffectuality here... I might need a moment and another rusty nail.

JOYFUL DISBELIEF!!

David is twisting the lids back on the peanut butter and jam.  I am looking at him incredulously -  eyes wide,  my eyebrows raised nearly to my hairline.

"What?!" asks David.

"It's just..."  I'm nearly speechless.  "I never see you do that."

He snorts.  "I do too!"

"HAH!  You NEVER put things away."

"I put things away in the morning!"   He turns to Rissa for backup.

"No, Daddy, you don't."

"Usually I do!"

"No Daddy."

"At least half the time."

Rissa and I shake our heads.

"I put things away!!"

I place a consoling hand upon his shoulder.  "Sweetie.  I'm sorry.  Let me restate.  Yes, occasionally you do  put your sandwich making ingredients away, but you always leave something."

"Not always."

"Yes.  ALWAYS.  You might put the sandwich meats away, but you'll leave the wrappers from your cheese slices.  You'll put the cheese slice wappers in the garbage, but you'll leave the bread bag open and Miracle Whip knives on the island."

"I just leave those things so that Rissa can make her lunch."

"I don't use Miracle Whip Daddy."

"Fine!  Fine!  I will put away EVERYTHING!  You just watch me!!!  See this!?!  I am PUTTING AWAY the sandwich meats!  These knives?  Going in the dishwasher.  You," he turns to Rissa,  "are going to have to find a NEW knife!"

"Okay Daddy."

In a dramatic show of domesticity, David takes the dishcloth and 'cleans' the island of its bread crumbs and morning muck.  His hand carefully carries the detritus of sandwich preparation to the garbage under the sink and he deposits it with a flourish.  "Let it not be said that I can't clean up after myself!"

Rissa and I hold our tongues.

David leaves for work. Then, Rissa makes her lunch and leaves for school.  I have already started writing this post.

I make my way back into the kitchen, I tidy the cheese knife Rissa has left behind and put all of her breakfast dishes, which she has left on the counter right above the dishwasher, into the dishwasher.  Then I take a damp dishcloth and wash the island before cleaning up the floor under the sink where dramatically thrown crumbs have fallen short of the garbage can.  And as I'm doing this?  All I feel is LOVE for the pair of them.  Because after I nag and nag and nag?  They really do try.

Storm's a comin'!

David arrives home, a little later than usual. 

"I have things for you,"  he says, before running back out to the car.

"Oh really?"

He comes back, hefting a full bag of firewood and making He-Man- look-how-strong-I-am noises.

"Firewood?"

"In case you're cold."  He says as he runs out once more.  (Yesterday, I'd had a fairly violent code blue - David kept throwing blankets on me and Rissa ran me a hot bath.)

He returns, arms laden with a veritable cornucopia of items.  He displays them with husbandly pride.  "You can have Fleur de Sel dark chocolate  and/or chocolate chip cookie lava cakes and/or cookies & cream ice cream!  You could have all three - together!  Plus (but wait there's more!)  I have these too!  (He indicates a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a box of Shiraz.)   I wasn't sure which you might want.  And there's a six pack of Stella Artois - mostly for me, but if you want them you can have them.  I wanted to cover all bases.  You can do a little from column A, a little from column B if that works."  He is an eager border collie puppy.

So either... he is making up for that extramarital affair he is having or...

"Is this because my period is coming?"  (I'd been on the cusp for a couple of days now)

"... I thought I'd be prepared."

"So you're saying that my period is akin to preparing for a category 4 storm front?"  (His eyes widen slightly.)    "Oh my God!  I'm Hurricane Heather!  You're battening down the hatches!  This is you calling in food and alcohol equivalents of the National Guard!"

 I can see him thinking very carefully about his response.

"No...  this is me, your faithful and loving husband, providing coping options to you, my lovely wife, in the event of any situation that might arise."

Smart man.
 

Don't open that Tupperware!

We could make our own penicillin with some of the contents of our fridge right now.    Show of hands, who else only cleans their fridge out on a quarterly or bi-annual basis?  As a science experiment it's kind of cool - as a surprise when you're opening a container - not so much.  That's why I highly recommend the see-through containers.  Then you can just see all the delicious, moldy-green bits (shudder) and know what has to go before opening the vessel and releasing the new species you're cultivating into the air like Anthrax.  There are times, when the entire container ends up in the garbage.  Usually it's David who does that.  I can't stand to throw anything away that could be properly recycled.  I will empty even the foulest container, overcoming my food odor gag-reflex to get that sucker washed and put into the recycling bin.

We don't have a garburator, which means that when we do have a refrigerator stacked with muck and yuck plastic containers - we need to take a large spoon, walk to the main floor bathroom (oh so conveniently located off the kitchen) and begin the FQQ (Food of Questionable Quality) purge into the toilet.  WARNING - make sure the food is in bite sized pieces when you do this!  Don't just take a whole freaking chicken breast or head of broccoli /cauliflower and think you can flush it - it WON'T work!  Also - make sure that you have a plunger on hand - just in case your bite-sized pieces of FQQ get clogged in said toilet.  'Cause nothing says party like a bathroom floor filled with an inch of contaminated water.

Fridge cleaning is one of those household chores that just gets put on the back burner for other more noticeable things, like say dirty dishes in the sink or occasional chairs covered in cat hair.  I'm all for the lower effort housecleaning - the things that take next to no time to do but make it look like the house is really clean.  Vacuuming is a good one.  You see those nice vacuum marks on the floor and it can go a great way to perfect the illusion of cleanliness.  Every day when I'm done my shower I make sure the bathroom sink is clean.  I can do that quick fix in about 60 seconds.  I was a Molly Maid during university, so when I'm motivated, the house can get cleaned fairly quickly.  Or it would if I didn't get all distracticated - which happens ALL the time to me. 

I start in one room and then something else will catch my eye, so those papers that I had intended to file up in the study wind up on the stairs as I break down cardboard boxes which remind me there are more in the basement, but then I notice that the kitty litter needs to be changed, and when I'm in the tool room locating the garbage bags for the kitty litter I see that the floor needs to be swept and then when I go to get the broom, I notice that the cats have taken a strand of the carpet underneath David's drum set and are unraveling it... and then it's the end of the day and other than the clean bathroom sink that I managed to wipe after my shower, the house pretty much looks the same.  And then, even when I do go on an all-out cleaning fit and the house is vacuumed and counters are clear of crap, Rissa comes home and says "Is someone coming over tonight?  The house is so clean!" 

"NO!! NO ONE IS COMING OVER!!!  YOU KNOW IT IS POSSIBLE THAT WE, AS A FAMILY, WORKING COOPERATIVELY, COULD LIVE IN A HOUSE WHERE THINGS ARE CLEANED, TIDIED AND FREAKING VACUUMED AS A MATTER OF COURSE!!!!"

Brad Pitt and Chanel No. 5??

Okay, so Chanel No. 5 ads.   WHAT. THE. POOH.  Brad Pitt is the new face of Chanel No. 5?  My friend Meg said that it happened, but I thought she was high.   Brad Pitt?  Chanel No. 5?

And then I found it - a 31 second commercial that can make the most nonsensical hallucinogenic experience seem like watching the most simplistic inaugural address.

"It's not a journey;* every journey ends, but we go on.  The world turns and we turn with it.  Plans disappear, dreams take over."

My eyes rolled back in my head so far in disbelief, I almost gave myself a brain aneurysm.  My snorts of laughter almost choked me.   But then, somewhere around the 18 second mark...   Brad Pitt actually turns to the camera and looks directly... at ME.

"But wherever I go... there you are... "  

And there it is folks, that's where my near-hysterical scoffing got stuck in my throat.  Because when he looked into the camera and said those words?  I actually clenched.  With my girlie bits.  Dead serious.  My mouth got dry.  It was akin to Johnny Depp in Chocolate suggesting that he'd "come round sometime and get that squeak out of" Juliette Binoche's door.   But then?  Pitt looked away and the spell was completely broken with these words...

"My luck.  My fate.  My fortune.  Chanel No. 5.   Inevitable."

I had to watch it again.  It was like a train wreck.  Eye roll, eye roll, snort, scoff, eye roll, snort, snort, scoff, eye roll, eye roll, eye roll,  blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, eye roll...  OH. MY. BLESSED. GOD, blah, blah, blah, snort, scoff, snort, blah, blah, blah de freakin' blah.

Six times.  I have watched it six times.  And I gotta say that in the midst of those 27 painful - they paid him HOW MUCH?? - seconds?  The other  4 seconds where I'm pretty sure he's promising that he will leave Angelina Jolie for ME?   Effective advertising.  And you know how I know that?  Because I'm not even attracted to Brad Pitt.  I mean sure, when David and I play Would You Rather - we both pretty much get stuck at the "Would you rather have dinner with George Clooney and Brad Pitt?"  option, but that has everything to do with how much fun they are in the Oceans movies.  So I was a bit surprised that there was any attraction for me at all.  'Course, my period's due (again) and I am incredibly horny.

Chanel perfume ads always seem to be fashioned as cinematic melodramas from the 1940s.  And let's face it, Bette Davis did it so much better in Now Voyager.   

"Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars."   

You know why these ads don't work?  Because it's no longer 1979 and none of these spokespeople are Catherine Deneuve.  You have to be her to pull off that existential, melodramatic shit.   Although Audrey Tautou did a pretty good job in 2009.  So maybe what I should say is that you can't be American, or Australian, or British or a Russian immigrant to pull off a quintessentially French ad.  I think you have to be French.  Like with a capital "F" and italics, kind of French.

* and you just KNOW that there would have been a freaking semi-colon there!