BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“I’m home!” I yelled as I came through the door.

It was fairly quiet in the house, which should have tipped me off right away. Well, that and the remnants of the cardboard refrigerator box that had apparently been dismembered in our dining room. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was all about, to be honest. Especially since our refrigerator had been fine earlier, so there wasn’t really a need for a new one.

But, of course, living with an Evil Redhead, you learn not to ask too many questions. Not that such has stopped me in the past. I even have the scars to prove it.

So, anyway, I checked the time just to be sure. The o-spring was still at a play-date, but EKay’s vehicle was in the driveway, so I figured she was here somewhere. Of course, since I hadn’t heard her scream, “Lackey! Get in here right now!” I assumed things were all good. But, “things” can change pretty quickly around our house.

However, what with it appearing to be safe for the time being, I headed for the kitchen to get myself something to drink.

That’s when I saw it.

A big slice of the refrigerator box was spread out on the kitchen floor. E K was standing next to it, absently thumbing through a magazine while humming the theme from Psycho to herself. On the counter nearby sat a nearly empty, somewhat drippy looking, Ultra-Economy Sized bottle of Craft Glue.

This tableau was bizarre enough in and of itself. Well, to folks who don’t live here, anyway. But, I was sort of used to it. However, there was more to the picture. At EKay’s feet, sprawled out on the huge slab of cardboard, was a friend of ours. I’ll call him Bob, because that’s the name E K assigns to most men with whom she is displeased. Apparently it has something to do with an old boyfriend and (per the redhead) the fact that men are simpletons. Her reasoning is that Bob is easy to spell, even backwards, therefore even a man should be able to do it.

So, anyway, upon closer inspection, Bob appeared to be laying in a large puddle of the Craft Glue. On top of that – And I mean literally on top – the redhead was seeing to it that he stayed put in said puddle by use of a strategically placed stiletto heel pushing down on his head.

“Ummm… Hey, Bob,” I said.

“Hey, Murv,” he sort of mumbled.

“Hush, Bob,” E K admonished. “I didn’t say you could talk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watched for a minute as she continued thumbing through the magazine. While it wasn’t unusual to see my wife torturing some poor guy who had annoyed her, I had to say the glue and cardboard thing was new and different. But then, she is an awfully creative little dominatrix.

Not entirely sure how to proceed, I finally cleared my throat, and then asked, “Mother Jones or Cosmo?”

“Neither,” she said. “A new jigsaw puzzle catalog.”

“Oh,” I replied. I nabbed myself a soda from the fridge, which just  so happened to be the same fridge that had been there when I left, go figure. After a sip or two I cleared my throat again. “Ummm, your worship… May I ask another question?”

“That will make two in one day.”

“I know.”

“All right. What is it, lackey?”

“Why are you standing on Bob’s head?”

“Because he was squirming too much, of course.”

“Oh… I see.” Really, I didn’t. So, I paused for a second then said, “Ummm… I’m not sure I follow.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, but didn’t look up at me.  Instead, she glanced down at Bob, leaned forward and pushed a little harder on his head and ordered, “Stop moving!” Then, she went back to perusing the catalog and addressed me, “Because he has to be still while the glue is drying.”

So, I had been correct. He was laying in a pool of glue.

“Umm… Okay. Why?” I asked.

“Don’t be stupid, lackey,” she admonished. “Oh, wait… You’re male. You can’t help it, can you? Hmph. Well, it’s simple physics. If  he moves around too much while the glue is drying he won’t stick to the cardboard properly.  If that happens then he will probably fall off.”

“Fall off?”

She sighed again. “Yes. When I hang him on the wall.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Okay… So, mind if I ask why you want to hang Bob on the wall?”

“That’s three.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed, then answered me anyway. “To teach him a lesson, of course.”

“About what? Art?”

“Exactly. That’s four, by the way.”

I hadn’t really expected her to say that. The “exactly” thing, I mean. The four I was pretty sure I saw coming the minute I asked the question. But then she’s an evil redhead. Her mind works in very mysterious ways and she expects you to either know exactly what she means, or just get out of her way and leave her alone. Sometimes she even wants both at the same time.

“Uhh, okay,” I replied. “I guess…” I paused again and stood there watching her thumb through the catalog. Finally, I gave in and said, “I’m sorry your worship, I’m still not sure I follow.”

She blew out a heavy sigh that spoke volumes. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, she sighs an awful lot when she is annoyed. At any rate, the particular volume this annoyed sigh spoke was, “My, my, my… Aren’t you just a complete moron today?” She tossed the catalog aside, then took a moment to stomp some strategic points on Bob that appeared to be coming loose from the cardboard. Then, she planted her foot on the back of his neck, crossed her arms, and glared at me.

“It’s simple, lackey,” she explained. “It came to my attention that he glued a jigsaw puzzle to a piece of cardboard. That’s unacceptable. Jigsaw puzzles are for working, then putting back into the box, and then working again at a later date.  Everyone knows this. They must never… and I repeat, NEVER… be glued.” She looked down and gave her heel a twist against the back of Bob’s neck and barked, “Right, Bob?”

“Right,” Bob mumbled, mainly because half of his mouth was now stuck to the corrugated backing as the glue continued to dry.

“Right what?” she said, twisting a little harder.

Bob groaned and then mumbled again, “Right, oh Queen of the Jigsaw Puzzle.”

“Better,” E K said with a wicked grin.

As it turned out, Bob hung on the wall in our living room for about two weeks.

I’m here to tell you, it was a little disconcerting. Sort of like having the McDonald’s singing fish hanging next to the sofa. However, it did work out for parties and such. E K would just smack him in the back of the head with her shoe and order him to entertain the guests. So, he would tell jokes and even sing some old classic rock tunes. I’m inclined to believe he did this  out of fear, because I often heard the redhead threatening him… It always seemed to be something to do with “missing pieces.” I never asked, but I’m pretty sure I can imagine what she meant, especially since she was always holding an X-acto knife and a puzzle piece shaped template whenever she made the comment.

I think Bob knew exactly what she meant too.

But, eventually, as often happens, E K got tired of the “Bob Art”, so she took him down and put him out at the curb on trash night.

We haven’t seen him since, but I heard through the grapevine that he’s hanging in a private mental hospital upstate. Apparently he not only entertains the residents, but is also being treated for what they consider an irrational fear of redheads, craft glue, and jigsaw puzzles.

More to come…

Murv

When you have geriatric felines you are going to have problems. That is just how it is.

I’m sure you’ve read some of my other blogs where I’ve gone on about having to give insulin to diabetic cats, or running sub-cutaneous fluids into a fleabag with chronic constipation. You’ve likely even read the blog about – and laughed at the picture of – the hemorrhoid cat. So, I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that I am now lamenting the selective incontinence of one such “kitteh”.

Jasper, or as I like to call him, “the stupid one” – mostly because he’s as dense as a brick – has taken to relieving himself in one corner of our dining room. We stay on top of it, of course. Our house is lived in, not filthy. But, I have to admit, it is a bit of a battle. And, no matter how many chemicals you use to destroy the human detectable odor, the cat can still smell it and returns to that place over and over.

Since I am sequestered away in the office all day, we lock “TSO” and “TFO” (The Fat One) in the basement where the litter boxes are located. Granted, the basement is unfinished so it isn’t exactly plush – which is how E K prefers her dungeon – but, for the kitteh’s sake we do make sure they have their “cat pyramids” and “cat beds” down there. And, since that is where their food dishes are as well, they are all good.

Now, before I get a ration of comments telling me how I need to handle this, or that I am a bad person because I need to take the cat to the vet because he’s trying to tell me he is ill, just put a governor on it and step away from the keyboard. E K and I have been rescuing cats for better than 20 years. We have more than just a little experience in this arena. PLUS, we have, in fact, taken him to the vet. He’s fine. Nothing wrong. No urinary infections, no diabetes, etc. He’s just old and suffering from “I don’t care anymore syndrome.”

So anyway, on with the story. “TSO” will do the same thing in the basement on occasion, meaning he’ll leave a puddle on the concrete floor 10 steps from the litter boxes, just because he can. Fortunately, that is much easier to clean up than the hardwood in the dining room, but I digress.

Just the other day it was raining. Since we live in an old house at the bottom of a hill, in a dip in the road, with all of the property around us sitting higher than us, drainage occurs. See where I’m going with this? When such drainage occurs and the ground is saturated, some seepage also occurs. We don’t get “major flooding” down there, but we get a few puddles and minor streams running toward the floor drain.

On this particular day, the O-spring, fresh off finishing her homework, headed downstairs to take care of the afternoon feline feeding – something that has been added to her list of chores in recent weeks. No more had she gone down into the basement than I heard “Ewwwww! Jasper! That’s disgusting!” Given that I was sitting in the office upstairs doing some work, you know she had to be pretty loud.

The “Ewwws” and scoldings continued for a minute or two, and finally I heard her clomping back up the stairs. The basement door opened, the slammed, and I was greeted with my daughter yelling at me from the bottom of the first floor staircase.

“DADDY! Jasper peed ALL OVER the basement!”

“What do you mean, all over?” I asked.

“He peed EVERYWHERE! There’s only only little places to stand where it’s dry. It’s GROSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”

When I finally stopped laughing I called back to her, “Honey, it’s raining. That’s just water from the basement leaking.”

It was quiet for a moment, then I heard a very calm and perfunctory, “Oh.”

Crisis averted. I wonder what she’s going to do the first time she has to change a diaper?

More to come…

Murv