If It Looks As Though I Could Burst Into Tears at Any Second, It’s Because I Could

Despite my optimistic nature and glass half-full philosophy of life, I find myself struggling to put a happy spin on a certain situation in my life, namely, the fact that my cat, Gilligan, is declining. Although the decline has been gradual, it has become extremely obvious over the past few days, the missed litter box fiasco being a symptom of the larger problem.

At this point, Gilly has lost most of his body weight despite eating from a menu fit for a king. When stroking his body, I picture my hands running over a soft bag of delicate bones and, lifting him to cuddle against my chest requires less energy than it would take me to lift a marmalade-colored whisper.

While climbing the fifteen stairs to the second floor of our home appears to present no problem to him; the task is accomplished at a slower pace than ever before and, descending the stairs doesn’t happen in any big hurry, either. His daytime naps are becoming even more frequent which is saying a lot for a cat who has always loved his naps and, it’s been a long time since he had the energy to bat at one of his cat toys.

I am just so sad about this. He was our first pet; coming to live with us as a tiny ginger puffball just days after we returned from our honeymoon. He spent the first few nights of his life with us sleeping in a tiny ball, nestled in Hugh’s armpit before adopting one of the pillows as his own. He was never very good about company, ignoring guests for the first day and throwing hissy-fits every day thereafter but; he was always loving and sweet toward the children and the dogs. He is agoraphobic, slightly anal about his space and completely in love with Hugh, whom he follows around the house until such time as the man finally offers him his lap.

He’s family and now, he’s failing and my heart is breaking and I can’t think of anything happy to say about that. Indeed, yesterday's joke about being able to replace my pets was the equivalent of whistling past the graveyard; if I joke about it, it won't happen. I wish that were true.

Really, I do.

Who Needs Babies? I Have Pets

A few years after the Man-Cub was born, I suffered from a wicked case of baby fever and, for just a few days; almost regretted my decision to have my tubes tied. Then, the Cub caught a particularly virulent case of stomach flu and, after two solid days of cleaning up barf, diarrhea and tears, I was pretty much over it.

This morning, I awoke to yet another pile of dog puke, a puddle of cat pee and a molten pile of someone’s diarrhea, probably the cat’s since it was a relatively small pile and was on a throw rug located in the vicinity of the litter box.

I have officially arrived at the conclusion that the only difference between raising pets and raising small people is the fact that pets require more vacuuming up after them which, as an aside, seriously, dog? Considering how much fur I empty from the vacuum canister every day, how do you have any hair left on your body?

And, I digress.

So, already this morning I have washed a load of laundry consisting of the covers to the dog’s beds since, that is what he soiled with his pukage, plus several towels used to sop up the puddle of cat pee (which was, conveniently, contained on the rubber mat placed under the litter box, making the accident less frustrating since it was clearly a near-miss of the litter box and not some jacked-up cry-for-attention cat thing and, the rags used to clean up the mystery-although more than likely cat generated-pile of poo.

This is exactly the kind of laundry I used to do when the kids were babies, so; please consider any possibility of baby fever for this girl to be OVER. Also, the next time one of the children casually mentions that it sure would be neat to get another puppy, you know, as company for Rowdie; manual strangulation of offending party may commence.

Ok, not really; I can replace my pets but I could never replace my children. Oh, hey! There’s another difference between the two! Huh.

Some Things Are Worth the Risk of Spending Eternity in Hell

Yesterday I had to run into the Hellmouth for a few items while the Man-Cub was at tutoring. When I got to the store, I grabbed the first cart offered to me by the senior citizen manning the front door and started on my way. After only a couple of feet it was obvious that the cart was a Thunker (first clue, loud thunking noise emanating from the right front wheel) so; I turned around and traded it for another cart which, as is my luck when it comes to all things Hellmouth, was also a Thunker. Two different Thunkers later and I simply resigned myself to the fact that the Hellmouth employs only damaged carts and I began my shopping, albeit ten times more aware of the thunking noises coming from every other cart that passed me as I browsed.

Seriously, thunk- thunk, thunk- thunk, thunk-thunk, ad infinitum.

Then, a miraculous turn of events! In the pet section, I needed to move someone else's unattended cart in order to reach my preferred brand of cat litter and,when I did, lo and behold, no thunking. None! It was as silent as one of my children when asked to confess to a particularly heinous crime.

Dilemma!

I mean, the cart obviously belonged to someone else. But, you know, it was silent! So, I exchanged the items in the silent cart for the items in my cart (quick! Like a bunny!) and off I went, sans preferred litter but filled with euphoria over no longer having to listen to the grating noise of the Thunker.

Will I burn in Hell for this transgression? Maybe. Will my personal Hell feature an eternity of thunking noises? Probably. Did I care at that moment? Most certainly not.

As an aside, if you were shopping in the pet aisle of the local Hellmouth yesterday at around 4:00 Mountain Time and your perfectly quiet and reliable cart suddenly turned into a Thunker while you were debating the merits of canned salmon versus sliced beef; I’m sure it was just a coincidence.

Also, I would have gone with the sliced beef but, that’s just me.

Insert Wolf Whistle and Fist Pump Here

People Magazine just named Ryan Reynolds as the Sexiest Man Alive, saving me from having to boycott the magazine's very existence as would have been the case had they tried to shove that fickle Brad Pitt down the throats of the American public.

People Magazine, I applaud you and, not just because Ryan Reynolds is the new Green Lantern, which makes my nerdy little geek heart swell to three times it's normal size.

Although, there is that.

This Post Brought to You by Nothing in Particular and Many Things in General

I started listening to Christmas carols on my car stereo today; it is only a matter of time before we are inundated with them in the stores so I figured what the hell? Might as well get a refresher course on the Jingle Bell lyrics.

I made ham, roasted potatoes in cheddar sauce and garlic bay biscuits for dinner tonight which, if you believe my children, totally threw the planet off it’s’ axis, causing it to spin completely out of control. Why so, you may ask and, I shall tell you; because it isn’t a holiday. That’s right; apparently, I am only capable of making ham on a holiday, preferably one involving the imminent arrival of a particular jolly old elf. Where have I gone wrong with these children, I ask you.

The Sexiest Man Alive edition of People magazine comes out this week and rumor has it that Brad Pitt will take top honor. If this should happen, People magazine is dead to me. Dead.

Prince William announced his engagement to Kate Middleton today. My dream of one day seeing The Teenager walk down the aisle wearing a diamond tiara and dragging a fifty foot train has been crushed, crushed, I say.

Gwenyth Paltrow is guest starring on Glee. HATE.

I just finished the last carton of Ben & Jerry’s carrot cake ice cream. It was a limited batch and I cannot replace it. Woe.

That is all.

All’s Well That Ends…Without Bloodshed

My day with The Teenager went quite well. We enjoyed several hours of shopping, indulged in peppermint mochas at Starbucks, gorged ourselves on Chinese (food, in case you were confused. Or,you know, nervous if you happen to be Chinese), volunteered an hour of our time at the fundraiser set-up and managed to stay awake through Neil Simon’s Broadway Bound at the local community theater; the staying awake part being a bigger challenge for The Teenager than for me since I actually enjoy theater while she would prefer ritualistic torture to bettering herself through culture. And, yes, if you asked her; I’m sure she would say they are one and the same.

Anyhoo. Time spent with my daughter in any endeavour is time well spent and I plan to arrange another Girl’s Day, soon.

The boys, on the other hand, didn’t fare quite as well and, despite two consecutive days of stalking through the woods in knee-deep snow, Bambi lives. On the bright side, no one got frostbite or, you know, shot their eye out.

Moving on…

…work today went well. I got the last of the Christmas displays done at the store, despite the antics of one pain-in-the-ass juvenile feline who, in news not entirely coincidental, will be getting his testicles snipped off by the end of the month. Unfortunately, the mere threat of castration has no discernible effect on the cat’s determination to ruin each and every festive holiday display that I set up but, that won’t keep me from shaking my fist at him while bellowing “Off with your nuts!” as he absconds with yet another ribbon streamer, bow or jingle bell. As an aside, I wonder if cat testicles could be fashioned into a set of click-clacks.

Discuss.

Wait, you want to do what with my balls?

Girls Day, No Weapons Allowed

The Teenager and I are spending the day together. First, we have to take the centerpiece I made for my women's club fundraiser to the bank at which the fundraising event will be held next Friday evening. While we are there, we are going to help the ladies set up the venue, checking out each of the festively decorated trees, centerpieces, wreaths and gift baskets. Then, we are going shopping, out to lunch, to more stores for more shopping, attending a holiday open house at a boutique owned by one of my friends, going to dinner and, finally, finishing the night at a performance of Broadway Bound at the local community theater. It’s going to be a full day and we are looking forward to it.

Plus, it will give me a chance to tease The Teenager about The Crush, which just never gets old. For me; I imagine it will start to wear thin on her right around, oh, noon or so. Maybe earlier.

Speaking of The Crush, Thursday night's dinner went quite well. That is, if you disregard the part where Hugh met the young man at the door with a gun. Oh yes, he did. And, while there is a rather long and boring story behind it (short version: he and the Man-Cub are going hunting today and he was checking their equipment so they would be ready to go), I find it far more entertaining to say that he was trying to be intimidating.

Which didn’t work at all, by the way; The Crush seemed quite unruffled and comfortable in our home. He even joked about the gun and volunteered that it could have been worse; Hugh could have met him at the door with a gun and a shovel. I think he’s going to fit in with this family and I’m guessing that, if nothing else; he and The Teenager will have a long and beautiful friendship. Minus any touchy-feely nonsense, of course, otherwise; there may very well be a gun and a shovel in his future.

And, while we are on the topic of Hugh’s guns, I will reiterate the fact that the boys are hunting today. My baby is traipsing through the woods on his first hunt. With a loaded gun; I’m going to need to focus on all the shopping that The Teenager and I are going to be doing just to keep my mind off this fact. And, while I hope he bags his first kill (gag), The Teenager and I will be bagging our own prey, starting at Sephora and working our way to the local chocolatier. For the record though, all the season-scented body wash, new make-up pallets and hand-dipped caramels in the world won’t ease my worries until we are all home safe and sound tonight.

That’s how I roll.