Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault
They won't take you to the vet
You're obviously not their favorite pet
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault
You may not be a bed of roses
You're not friend to those with noses
I'll miss you before we're done
Or the world will smell as one
"Smelly Cat" as sung by Phoebe on "Friends"
Everyone relax! This is going to be a relatively short blog today about absolutely nothing. I know you all had nightmares about my pseudo politically charged recycling rant yesterday & for that I am very sorry. I just don't know what gets into me some days?? Hee hee. Anyway, I have absolutely nothing to say today....so we will briefly discuss my brilliant use of sarcasm and how it gets me into sooooooo much trouble with the Hubs! Warning: Contents to include foul language. I don't actually curse that much (oh, c'mon! I don't care which protestant church ya'll go to, everyone of you knows that you pop out an S-word or even an F-bomb every so often: backed over your kid's $200 bike lately? forgot to set the oven timer on that casserole that's expected at your mother-in-law's house in 15 min? See?), though I do say the words IN MY MIND. And, since this is a view into my mind, we have to include the expletives for authenticity's sake. Now that you're all nodding your head in agreement, you'll realize that I missed my calling and should've been a defense attorney....
My husband does not like me to swear. He does not like me to smart off at him. He does not think it is cute, sexy, endearing, or anything similar. When I try it, he thinks it comes across as crass, vulgar, and low-class. But, that's really me! I am the queen of dark sarcastic humor! I can't control it! So, I say it in my head (or scream it into a pillow)...case in point...I went upstairs to do some piddly, unimportant thing over the weekend, only to find that my almost 10 year old Ragdoll cat, Penelope Cruz Moon, had shit on Carter's bed. There's no other way to say it, AND, I warned you! It was completely disgusting! Now, Kevin is not a fan of cat shit, esp on his beloved son's bed and I was not excited about the prospect of him seeing it. He isn't crazy about my love of the feline species as it is....he's even less gracious with Kitty's (I am the only one who uses her proper name!!!)recent gastrointestinal anomalies. So, there I am. Scrubbing, spraying, vomiting in my mouth just a little. I hear something! I freeze! I hold my breath! Yep - that's what it is.....footfalls on the stairs. HE'S COMING! QUICK! PICK THE SHIT UP (literally)! But wait - there's not time! So, like the ugly little troll in that scary story about the billy goats and the bridge, I yell, "HALT! WHO GOES THERE?" Actually, I think I just screamed, "DON'T COME UP HERE - KITTY JUST TOOK A SH...A POOPIE ON CARTER'S BED! RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!" His response...."Whaaaaaa???" Me, again, in a relatively calmer tone, "Kitty is sick, dear husband, and I doth intend to clean this abomination up thoroughly so it doesn't makest thou ill." He replies, "Uh...Kitty's sick? What do you mean sick?" OK - this is the point where the conversation retreats inside my head. SHITTING ON BED IS THE ONLY KIND OF SICK THAT KITTY GETS!!! I have no idea what I said back as I went into my Stepford Wives mentality and said whatever he would've preferred I say. I think I even put on pearls and stiletto pumps afterward and vacuumed the carpet al a June Cleaver. What I said on the inside, however, was the REAL me...."What kind of sick? Uh, oh! Didn't I tell you that she joined a gang? Yeah - she joined a gang and, unfortunately, was just the victim of a Feline drive-by. Kitty is a gunshot victim and I'm removing the bullet on top of Carter's bed, since I really like to see his bed COVERED IN KITTY ENTRAILS!!!!"
I just thought it, OK. I didn't actually say it! Then I vacuumed....and made a pie! Shhhhhhhh - don't tell the Hubs! He thinkest me perfect!
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