Wednesday, September 23, 2009

The Curious Case of the Missing Underwear

Well, now that I have MJenks attention, I am going to sadly reveal that this story is not about any new found love of going commando.  Sorry guys, but the epic question of "Does She or Doesn't She" will not be answered here today.  

Two weeks ago I made my way to the local animal shelter to adopt another kitten.  After two months of mourning the passing of my beloved B-Phat, I had decided to bring another kitten into my home.  Elsa wasn't really happy about my decision, but since I buy the Fancy Feast and have the hook-up for the catnip, she gave her reluctant meow of approval.  I, on the other hand, am now asking WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??!?!

OMG people, I have completely lost my freaking' mind and had the world's biggest brain-fart.  It's been three years since I last had a kitten in my house and apparently time erases the memory of all the crazy batsh*t things kittens like to do.

1. Get a cold one week after you bring them home from the local Typhoid Mary Infirmary, so that you can spend every last dime you have until the next payday on x-rays, shots, IV saline re-hydration, oxygen tank confinement (seriously?!), antibiotics, and your vet's new Lexus XL complete with GPS and side door airbags.

2. Keeping you up until 5 a.m. the night before a full day when you have to get up at 7 a.m with their sneezing and hacking up a lung onto your carpet, bedspread, and new cashmere sweater you bought on sale for 50% off of the 50% off sale price from the original price.

3. Running full balls-to-the-wall speed down the hall, across the coffee table, over the love seat, and straight into a full set of closed window blinds in the middle of the night; thereby causing you to have a small, but significant heart attack that is only calmed by half a bag of Ho-Ho miniatures and two xanaxes with a triple vodka chaser.

4. Chase after a rather rotund three year old feline who is seriously pissed at her owner for getting her de-clawed because she would really like to smack the sh*t out of the new kitten at this point in time.  Why she doesn't just sit on him is beyond me.  She may not have claws, but she is up about three weight classes on him and could take him out with one good sumo squat.

Basically, I now know why God and I have decided that kids would not be a good thing for me.  Cause right now, I am one good midnight race-and-chase away from re-inventing the catapult.  But, love conquers all and Sneezes (no, I am not really going to call him that permanently, just until I can think of something more befitting) will curl up on my lap to "make biscuits" while purring the "Battle Hymn of the Republic"* then all is forgiven.  * Ok, he doesn't really purr the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but I think he was humming the theme from Jaws last night.

So, what the hell does any of the above have to do with underwear?  Well, I'll tell ya.  Tonight, I was trying to get some housework done.  Including laundry.  Which I hate to do and will put off until I have worn every last pair of clean socks, underpants, and tee-shirts I own.  Which is enough to last me about two weeks.  As in... I got Sneezes about two weeks ago.  Anyone getting a little light switch flick right about now????

I go about sorting my clothes.  Turning thing right side out (like my Mama taught me), when I start to notice a decided lack of something in my hamper.  I kept sorting.  And thinking, "I know I have worn underwear lately".  Followed by, "Where the hell are all my panties?"  For a minute I panic and think that I have left two weeks worth of undies at the gym and the people at Lifetime are going to ask me to go through some sort of sensitivity training before I can return.  I think I must have done a load of laundry earlier and left it in the dryer.  Nope, I checked.  Not there.  Then, from out of nowhere comes this small orange streak, racing full speed ahead with a flash of zebra print sailing behind it like the Black Pearl at full mast.

HOLY VICTORIA'S SECRET, BATMAN!!!  That was yesterday's panties streaking by me at 30 knots.  I gave chase to the little thief and discovered that he has absconded with every pair of underwear I have put in the hamper since I released him from his new-kitten quarantine.  He has been stashing them in the back of my closet behind a suitcase doing all sorts of who-know-what-kitten-things to or with them.  UGH!  

Now I have a big decision to make: Do I wash them (about 50 times in really hot water) or do I toss them out and run to the local Wally-world for a clean 5-pack of the Fruit of the Looms?  Then I have to decide what a kitten therapist is going to cost me because I'll bet you good money this little kitten has got some sort of full blown pantie issues going on and I can just see him growing up to become an internet-kitty-porn addict if I don't get this nipped in the bud right now.  Does anyone know a good therapist who is also fluent in Feline?  Or if Tide works on cat fur?

Monday, September 7, 2009

Sophie's Choice

Sunday, I went to the local animal shelter.  Bud E Phat has been gone for two months and while I morn the emptiness that he has left in my house, I also yearn for the pitter-patter of four more paws.  That is not to say that Elsa is not the love of my life.  I fought hard with the decision to bring another kitty into my home.  In all honesty, I am still not sure I am doing the right thing for her.  There are times I wish she could speak to me.  Even if it is just so she could tell me what the h*ll "Meeow, mow, moooww, meow" means.  Especially at four a.m. when she thinks this is a life ending all important thing to tell me at the top of her lungs.

The shelter was overflowing with kittens.  They were everywhere.  I was on fluffy overload.  As I went between the two cat houses, I couldn't believe that I wasn't finding the soul of my beloved B-Phat in any of the cats I held.  That soul that has come to me each time I have needed it and it never fails to give me unconditional love, affection and gratitude.

Then a volunteer came in with a pet carrier.  Inside it was the most beautiful Snowshoe-Siamese mix I have ever seen.  Eyes as deep blue as the waters I love to dive and a chocolate brown coat that begged to be petted.  The volunteer appeared to be so blase in his duties that he banged the carrier around a few times when he sat it down to prepare a cage for this gorgeous animal.  A new home for what will be the last days of his life.

The minute I looked into those eyes I saw that soul.  The soul of my Turbo.  My Baby Kitty.  My Bud E Phat.  That soul that seams to find me every time I have an empty spot at the food dish.  That soul that I have loved so deeply that I would give my last breath to save.  And on Sunday, I broke my heart and walked away from all he promised yet again. For on this animal were four words that will condemn this wonderful creature to a death that even I can not delay: Owner Surrender ~ Behavioral/Urination.  

Before I even laid eyes on the surrender form, I knew I wanted this cat.  A cat that had been someone's faithful companion for 7 years and was now looking so lost at the drastic change in his life.  The soul I have been blessed with three times before, shone brightly behind those blue eyes, pleading with me to take him home again.  I had found him once more and my heart cried in joy.  But this time was not meant to be.  This time logic won instead of my heart and I chose another.  

That is not to say I do not adore the cute little orange and white tabby that is to come home with me next Saturday.  I have known this kitten soul before.  He is the soul of Thomas O' Malley.  He lives with my Dad for now, but time is winning that age old battle with him.  (Thomas lived with me after Turbo had gone but stayed by my Dad's side after I had gone.)  I know that his playful demeanor and little "chirping" noises are what drew me to him.  Soon he will have covered my house and heart with cat-fur and I will love him as much as my Elsa.  Maybe one day, my old soul will come to see me again through him.  But for now my soul is back there in a 3'x5' cage waiting for a rescue that this time can not come.  He is waiting for a heart that is fractured by reality, logic and reason instead of being ruled by instinct, faith and love.  For this I hope he can forgive me and once again come to find me when the time comes.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

We Need A Meeting

I know, I know, I haven't written.  I'm going to claim utter desolation at the pain inflicted by the two Ex's.  In reality, I have been caught up in the back to school madness that is Jr. High. But have no fear, I found something to Yip about.  See?  I knew it wouldn't take long since I am fairly certain that there are elements out there specifically designed just to piss me off.  One of them is "The Meeting".  Low and behold, my employer decided that we need more meetings. (Which is funny because we have been having weekly meeting since last year and no one remembers why we were meeting in the first place.) Usually a meeting can be a small but painful thing.  Like a paper cut.  They tend to be self contained and last a mercifully short (1-2 hours) amount of time.  That is if course unless someone higher up in the food chain decides he/she "has a great idea" and wants to re-invent the wheel or beat a dead horse into dust.  This decision usually morphs into "The Seminar".  Which is slightly less painful than a root canal done by a chain saw.

"The Seminar" is the modern version of the Grand Inquisition.  It has probably taken more lives the Inquisition at this point.  "The Seminar" last just a little shorter than the Six Day War.  Any longer and it would be a "Convention".  "Conventions" are not as immediately painful as "The Meeting" or "The Seminar" as participants are able to slip out undetected for longer than scheduled in order to partake in the team building exercise known as the liquid lunch or the extra-early-happy hour.  "The Seminar" and "The Convention" are also mercifully held at a location other than your office, so they have a nice min-break appeal to them.  Something to do with the cat being away and mice playing.  

"The Seminar" occurs when someone in management (who has access to major budget funds) decides that life as we know it has been going a little too well, and he/she has to muck it up some how.  While "The Meeting" is typically used to get workers to drink the kool-aid or a major management-to-employee flogging; "The Seminar" is used to completely F-up life as you know it. Nothing gets a CIO/CEO/CFO hotter than thinking that worker bees really give a sh*t about rewriting the company mission statement or redesigning the process-flow/task analysis of the water cooler bottle replacement system.  This leads to hours upon hours of discussing the merits of totally trivial sh*t; like the toilet paper being hung with the flap forward vs. the flap facing backwards.  Especially when worker-bees know it's all going to be chucked in the bin by an over-riding management brain-fart two months from now when management gets another "bright idea" to create more work than humanly possible in addition to the 80 hour work week that we now endure without complaining for fear of losing our jobs in an economy that sucks hard than the prom queen.

Management will schedule a 2-3 day confinement in a banquet room or conference hall, where a perky, overly-caffeinated, ex-prom queen consultant will tell you how you are now going to beat a dead horse to death with a new and improved beating stick.  The entire stick will be used in a more timely and efficient manner.  (Cause GAWD forbid, that the way you have been beating it for years isn't the right way.  No matter how well it got the job done.)  In the meantime, work will be piling up on your desk and you will be expected to be "on top of it" even though you are locked away for 9 hours a day, learning how beating the dead horse with the old stick is no longer efficient.  And isn't the new stick all nice and shiny?  The new stick will turn out to be the old stick with bows, bells and whistles added to make you think it's a new stick.  Then they will ask for your input on how the company can better beat the dead horse.  This little piece of input typically manifests itself in the shape of an "anonymous feedback" survey where the first question is "Name"?  Usually this is when management takes note of the nay-sayers and has them taken out by the secret Gestapo when no one is looking.  

I would write more, but I have to go to another meeting.  Really.  It's been my fifth one this week and it is only Wednesday.  At this rate, I am going to have to add another meeting to my schedule because all the drinking I will be doing in order to recover from the last five meetings is going to send me straight to AA!