Evil Catnevel

For sale  

  FREE one cat who runs around the house approximately 3:29 in the morning like his tampon string is on fire, climbs to the top of Christmas tree, yowls, and then takes off on another lap around the house.   His run of terror ends with him CATapulting off the arm of the chair to fly through the air a la Evel Knevel to land, claws out on the new  curtains, which he promptly shoots to the top to get to the lighted garland hanging oh-so-decoratively .  He resembles  Popeye hitting the bell at the strength game at the country fair.    Once finished he immediately drops to the ground, and licks his paw and grooms himself, as if to say, “Yeah, that just happened.”

He’s really cute.

Really.

Wishes.....

Recently,  my students worked on a project that spoke volumes to me.

It amazed me so much I had to make a video about it.

As you watch the video, remember these are from the popular kids, the athletes,  the kids who come from “good homes,”  the kids who make A Honor Roll, and the kids who seem to have it all together.   They also come from the “nerds,”  the ones who need a little help academically, the lost, the forgotten, and the ignored. 

These are our kids. 

What is your child’s Christmas wish?  

*** In case the video didn't work for your phone.....here's the YouTube link....

The Drunk Squirrel Kegger

After reading this post, you should look up drunk squirrels on Google images.  
Who knew they were such lushes?

I enjoy a nicely landscaped, manicured lawn.  I love meticulously trimmed hedges with bright, beautiful annuals planted as a colorful border.  I appreciate those that switch out their flowers with the seasons..... pansies in the icy, winter; daisies and marigolds in the summer.  I love a good topiary or some creeping vines.   I love shrubs that transition beautifully from one season to the next, their foliage changing with the temperatures.  I like flower beds with different heights and texture, a riot of color, something unexpected.

So pretty.    *sigh*

When we first became homeowners, I was aghast at how the previous owners never took care of their flower beds.   They were full of years of leaves, Johnson grass, mushrooms, and weeds.  Shrubs were overgrown and planted helter-skelter.  No order was to be found.

So not pretty. *sigh*

During our first years in the house, I worked diligently trying to find the beauty in the ashes.  Often you could find me on the weekends digging in the dirt trying to restore order to the chaos.

SO much work.  *double sigh*

We dug up shrubs and moved them.  We pulled out ugly mini-trees using chains attached to the truck.  I spent hours and hours on my knees turning the soil over, working it, killing grubs, and trimming our little shrubs and bushes into something that was pretty.  I read tons of landscaping books, learning about zones, perennials, and annuals.  I plotted colors, shapes, and sizes of my future garden on graph paper.    I spent hours wandering around the nursery, dreaming of what I could create.    

I was slightly obsessed.

Reality struck when I realized how much my dreams were going to cost.   Bags of landscape mulch and bark are not cheap. I had no clue that flats of flowers, vines, and ornamental grasses will break the bank. Not to mention the watering required to keep those flowers pretty in the scorching Texas sun.   I scaled back on the scope of my plan of attack and plotted out a five year plan rather than all at once extravaganza.

I still remember how I felt when I finished our flower beds for the first time ever.    Those bright pretty blossoms fluttering in the light breeze.  The sunshine reflecting in the jeweled water droplets on each fresh plant like diamonds glittering in a crown. My long blond hair blowing in the wind.  My short, clean shorts showcasing my long, thin legs.  Butterflies flew about in celebration of my victory over the mess.  Bird sang.   I was radiant. Glowing.

Sorry, that's not me.  That's a movie.  In reality, I was sweaty and nasty.  My back was aching, my body sore,  and  my filthy fingernails were  ragged from days of work.  Our already slim bank account was several hundred dollars lighter than the week before.  

I had it though.   I had my beautiful flowerbeds.   I had my container gardens in genuine whiskey barrels, holes cut in the bottom, with fine gravel for drainage placed strategically in the bottom for better drainage.    I had it all.

For two days.

Then the slugs found my Gerber daisies and the all you can eat buffet began.   Each daisy was four bucks.   I had about 30 of them scattered about throughout the landscaping.  

The first morning, I walked out proud of my creation the day before.   We had company coming to stay with us in a couple of days, and my flower beds would be a beautiful complement to our new home.    Then, I looked at my new plants.  Holes were in the leaves everywhere. Petals had been chewed all the way through.   I had never planted a garden before, and I couldn't figure out what had attacked my babies.   

The second day, my plants were worse.   But this time I saw a clue.  A gazillion diamond dusted, clear trails sparkled in the morning sun.   

Slugs.

I read up on ways to get rid of them.   Most involved poisons.  We had so many beautiful song birds, I didn't want to chance killing a cardinal or a mockingbird.    Other solutions involved tons of egg shells bordering everything a slug might like to eat.  Like I could pull those out of my back pocket.   It would take me weeks to get enough shells for the amount of land I needed to trace around.    

Then I found the best solution of all......

BEER.

The solution for so many things.

According to my book, all I had to do was take a beer and pour it into several wide, shallow containers.    The article suggested lids.    Bingo.     I had plenty of those.    Apparently, the slugs love the smell of it, but  would be unable to digest the alcohol and die.  No muss.  No fuss.  No poison.  

Excellent.

Luckily, since Big Daddy always has a beer in the fridge (he drinks like one six pack a year),  I grabbed a Bud Light and began placing lids full of beer around my flowerbeds.   

Then I drank the other half of the bottle in celebration of my cunning and devious plot to rid my flower gardens of nastiness.... mwahahahaha.

The joke was on me, however.

That afternoon our guests arrived and we had a wonderful time visiting and catching up.   The next morning, the world seemed odd, for lack of a better world.

My friend, Lydia,  and I were sitting on our couch, drinking coffee and enjoying each other's company.    Suddenly, we were distracted by a squirrel, looking at us through the open, but screened window.  He was hanging single-handedly from a branch, one foot bracing him on a limb while the other hung free, staring at us.   And I swear he was chatting with us and frowning.

Lydia and I started laughing. The squirrel chattered louder, swinging a little from the branch, in his ire.

A movement caught my eye and I saw that our yard was full on squirrels... probably close to 20 of them, all running around in crazy patterns.  They were on the grass, in the branches of the shrubs,  the flowerbed, and on our porch.

As we watched, a squirrel tried drunkenly to make it across the power lines in front our house.  He fell from about thirty feet up to the asphalt below.  He lay stunned for a moment; then he popped up and made a wobbly path for the trees almost as though he was drunk.

Then it hit me...

The squirrels had found the beer.   

As I made for the front door to check the slug stash, my phone rang.  The sweet elderly lady from across the street was calling to tell me that I needed to look out my window... that my yard was covered in squirrels, that my HOUSE was covered in squirrels, that actually right now...and she whispered this.... there were squirrels, two separate pair, having sex on my roof. 

Then she giggled and hung up.

Oh.  My.  La.  

It was like a fraternity party for squirrels.  All we needed was a chubby one named Belushi showing up in a toga and the day would be complete.   

I went out to check my lids, and all 10 of them were completely dry.   Not a drop to be had.   

Classy, squirrels. 

Now, I am not a veterinarian.  I don't profess to know how much alcohol it takes to get a squirrel drunk, but apparently it takes about half a bottle per 20 animals.  Just in case you ever want to host your own squirrel party.

What was funniest to me was we didn't see any squirrels for days after that.  I can only imagine the hangovers they must have had.

Poor things.

Oh, and the slugs went away too.   

Hooray Beer.

The Tsunami of Poo or Another TMI post.....

A painting by Jackson Pollock.  I don't know what it is either.  

I have colitis, and I seem to have bad luck in restaurant bathrooms.   Not always a good combination.

Having colitis means I spend WAAAAY too much time figuring out what I'm going to eat, how it's going to affect me, and where the closest bathroom is.  

I can tell you it's thirty-seven steps from the eggs to the bathroom in Wal-Mart.   I know where all the bathrooms are in all the trucks stops, shops, and convenience stores in a twenty mile radius.  I know who has a public restroom and who "doesn't."   I don't shop at the ones who don't.   

There's one particular restaurant, our favorite,  I seem to always have bad luck with, though. I don't know what it is.   I go in there with the intent to do my business, and something always seems to go horribly awry.

One day, we were eating and I felt the rumble.   I quick-stepped to the bathroom, found a stall, and hovered as my momma taught me.    Suddenly, the Earth tilted on its axis.   Or the bathroom moved.   Or my horrible sense of balance kicked in.

Whatever.

It just wasn't a good time to suddenly start falling over, buuuuuut ........I did.

With my pants at my knees, I grabbed the empty air for anything I could hold on to.   My fingers found the porcelain lid of the toilet tank and proceeded to knock it off.

Of course.

Somehow, my ninja/fairy-like reflexes kicked in and I twisted my half-naked body to catch the lid with my other hand before it could shatter on the stone tile and I could never show my face there again.  

Whew.

Last night, things were not so lucky.  I truly may never be able to go back to the restaurant. As we were munching on our sweet and sour chicken, Big Daddy noticed a tapestry above our table.   It was a depiction of a tsunami.  People were standing on pieces of wood, vegetables, rubble, and refuse, fighting for their lives against the rising water.  Their faces were masks of horror, as wave after wave hit them.  They were just trying to survive, hanging on for dear life.  Who knew it was foreshadowing of what was about to happen?

There I was, stuffing my face, minding my own business when I felt my stomach cramp. 

Crap.

Literally.

I quickly walked the fifty-seven steps to the bathroom, I visited the stall, and began doing my deed.   A nasty, smelly, bad, embarrassing deed. A deed that had we been at home I would have been embarrassed enough about, being in  public is even worse. Because,  you see, colitis is all about the embarrassment   It's practically a symptom.   A gassy,  Jackson Pollock painting symptom.   And so I did the deed.

A deed so foul, I made my own eyes water.   Some poor, poor woman came in, gagged, and left. 

Though, in all honesty, I don't know if it was the smell or the sounds.  

TMI, I know.  But I warned you in the title, didn't I?

Finally, my episode passed (a pun!)  and I flushed the toilet.

Now those of you who have seen Ben Stiller in the movie "Along Came Polly" can guess what happens next.

The water began to rise.   And rise.  And rise.

I backed up in horror, as the Poo Tsunami began to creep closer to the edge.    I looked around desperately as though some  magical Genie Rotor-Rooter Man would appear from thin air and rescue me from the rising tide.  

No plunger.  No help to be found. 

Crap.  

I unhooked the stall door and rushed to the sink.   I quickly washed my hands and ran back for a second look.   Thankfully, it had stopped about half an inch from the top.  

I left embarrassed and ashamed, telling no one.    Wrong,  I know. And sad. Then, the waitress asked me where I had been.   Busted.

*sigh*

I used to love their egg rolls.

The *&^%$# Cat

Sometimes I have a cussing problem.    I know.
It shows a lack of intelligence and creativity.  I know.
It's not classy.  I know. 
Only uneducated people cuss.  I know.
Every time I cuss,  a baby bunny dies.     I know.   
As a woman of faith, I'm supposed to let no unwholesome talk come out of my mouth.  Ephesians 4:29.   I KNOW!

*sigh*

I'm a bad person, dammit.   I recognize that.   I try to change.  I do, really.  It's just my thorn.

I don't say bad words in mixed company.   I don't say them in church.  I don't say them at work.

If you can control it, you shouldn't say them at all.   I know!   I've heard all the arguments, but sometimes they just come springing from my lips like Greg Louganis off the high dive.

When The Kid was tiny, my favorite curse word was ass.  It's an incredibly versatile word.  Especially when you have road rage.   You can be a slow "bleep" driver.  A fast "bleep" driver.  A stupid "bleep" driver.   A crazy "bleep" driver.   Loved that word.

Even though The Kid was a sponge since the moment she was born and started talking at 3 months, I thought that SOMEHOW "those" words would be magically skipped over.  

I remember sitting at a red light with my 2 year old strapped into the back of the car.    Someone had cut me off, and I made reference to his similarities to a mule.  

From the backseat, I heard the sweetest little voice saying sadly, "You know, momma.  When you say those wowds, you huwt Jesus's heart.  He's pwobably cwying wight now."

Well.  Cwap.

I started trying to make up cuss words then.  

Sassa Frassa Rassa.  
Oh. My. La.
Shiitake mushrooms on wild rice.
Crappity-Doo Dah Ding Dang Dong.
Freaka-deaka-leaka-Shaniqua-Shontonya.   (This one was one a student helped me create because her name was Shontonya, and she wanted her name immortalized.)
Mother Trucker.  
Ratcheting wrenches.

These are all words I try to say when I feel a bad word clawing its way up the back of my throat.  Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't.

Last night it worked.   

Kinda.

I was *so* in the holiday spirit what with all the Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and fans keeping us cool,  I  decided in the chilly 80 degree, bright sunshine-y Christmas weather that we were finally going to put up our Christmas tree.

Big Daddy was on the computer.  The Kid was on the iPad.  I was wrangling our "new" prelit Fake Tree, by myself.   My sweet, Mother-in-Law had given us her slim tree last year after PsychoticKitty killed  our other one in a crash of fur, glass, and fake pine needles.

Now last year, after our tree's murder, I was in no mood to put her tree up.  In fact, I wanted to cancel Christmas all together.   Too much hassle.  Too much redecorating.  The Cat was just gonna climb back up to the angel on the top and try to trapeze to the ceiling fan again, destroying everything in the process.  I was done.   Big Daddy stepped up, however, and put the new tree up for me with nary a hateful word.  It was loverly.

This year, however,  it was all me.  It took Big Daddy all of about 10 minutes to put the tree up last year.  He made it look so easy.   I had no idea about putting tree part A into slot FB. (FB short for Fake Bitchass tree that was ticking me off)

What.  The.  Hades.  

Each layer of tree branches was tied off with beautiful little ribbons. About fifty eleven million of them.  You were supposed to untie them...the branches fall down magically...fluff 'em a  little... turn the tree on....  You're done!

Au contraire.  

Half my lights didn't work and I guarantee the makers didn't have a *&^%$# cat.

There I was, sweating like a pig, by myself, putting up a tree and the cat goes into attack mode.    His pupils blew out and swallowed his face. PsychoticKitty was back.  He saw STRING.   My foot moved.  He attacked.  I danced around like a Native American at a Pow Wow and the cat jumped with each step I took, a road map of scratches and puncture wounds marking my feet. 

Off PsychoticKitty went, screeching around the house, like a gecko on meth. He'd run back to the tree, jump off the tree's box, and launch himself at me, teeth bared, so that he could attack my feet again.   I'd start doing the rain dance again and cussing.  It was fun.

Really.

Then suddenly, he calmed, perched on the tree box, tail flicking, and plotted his path of attack up my tree.   I could read it in his eyes.   He wanted to kill this tree too.

Not on my watch, Cat.

Now while in the midst of all this mayhem, I was also in a mass text bonanza with my sisters griping about the tree. Misery loves company.

It went like this:

Sister #2:  I feel your pain.  We finally ripped off the prelit and put other lights on it.

Me:   I am sweating like a fat man at a buffet.  I've got my squirt bottle out just daring the cat to climb it.   Didn't even put ornaments on it, because his pupils were the size of pennies and he was racing around the house like someone set his tail on fire.  He'd screech up beside the tree and attack my feet.  Then he jumped up and bit my belly,  and hung for a second by his teeth in my shirt, dropped down and took off.  If the craphead looks at the tree wrong, much less climbs it, I swear, I'm drowning him with the squirt bottle.  I will chase him around the house spraying and screaming.  I can see it in my head already.  Make a move,  mother trucker.  

Lucky for him, he didn't, ya *&^%$# cat.