Sunday, April 5, 2009

Terminal PMS

My husband must really love me. He has to put up with my emotions, my legal thought process (that alone is grounds for an evaluation by a trained professional) and, on occasion, terminal PMS.

I say terminal not because it is terminal for me, but more because it can be terminal to the happiness, sense of well being, and general bodily intactness of those around me. Many have seen the psycho, wine consuming, chocolate hogging beast that sometimes inhabits my body, but few have lived to tell the tale. Therefore, the warnings have not been written.

This is a story of how my husband and his satanic cat fell victim to the beast. I say his satanic cat because the cat refuses to acknowledge the fact that, despite 6+ years of marriage and cohabitation, I am not going away. That, and sometimes the cat looks like this:


Note -- This is a simulated image. The actual image of the satanic cat has been altered to protect your computers from demonic possession.

Anyway, one fine day my head was located roughly three inches above my neck and my skin was a sickly shade of green. . .I may have even been speaking in tongues. My husband was on my list (you know the one) because he was doing something . . .I can't remember what that something was but I guarantee you it was something that deserved the list, something like breathing too hard or being nice. The cat was prancing around the house, and the dog, well he was the only smart one. . .he was hiding from me in the backyard.

Also, he is too cute for me to hurt. . .just look at this handsome fellow:

Pardon the doggie porn.

Anyway, as a recap we have one hiding dog, one innocent husband, one satanic cat, and me.

Well, the innocent husband decided to take a shower, because it was the safest place to be at the time, or so he thought. I was puttering around the house when I heard a tell tale scratching sound which signaled that the cat had found our newest piece of furniture and decided to mark it as his own.

It must have been the hormones, because all of a sudden I had the super human speed of The Bionic One, and I was able to grab the cat in the middle of his dash to his hidey hole. I caught the little bugger just in time.

I am beyond peeved at this point because there are now scratches in our new chair, and I am holding a hissing and spitting cat. And then it dawns on me. . .the cat likes my innocent husband so much, maybe he should be spending more time with him.

And that is when it happened. I walked very calmly into the bathroom, announced to my showering, innocent husband that HIS cat needed some quality time with him, and then I very calmly dropped the cat into the running shower with my innocent and compromised husband.

I will never forget the look my husband gave me . . .It was a combination of sheer WTF and concern. The cat, well, he fell fast, hit the water and then proceeded to jump (as only cats can do) back into the air, through the shower curtain and out of the bathroom.

Told you I was terminal!

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For everyone concerned on the welfare of the satanic wonderful cat, here is a post shower picture of him IN THE CHAIR!

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

A Weighty Issue

We have already established that I am a somewhat curvaceous woman. I have my own area code, and I am reluctantly proud and somewhat resigned to that fact.

One thing that I have learned more recently is that my feet also have a challenge when it comes to weight. Specifically, I have an extremely heavy lead foot. And boyo does the California Highway Patrol know it.

Recently, the local Monitor/Official Pastry Tester was trying to make the monthly quota doing his job in keeping the speed low on a local road, and I happened to come by when he was tuning up his radar.

Lucky me . . .Is there really anything better than seeing those lovely lights behind you?? Better yet, Officer Not So Friendly looked nothing like these guys:




Sidenote here: I LOVED John . . .Ponch not so much. But John, Hottie McHotterson! And John would never stoop to doing infomercials for Florida swamp land.

Back to the lesson: Some apologizing and lecturing later, I was on my way with a lovely yellow piece of paper by my side, and Mr. Officer Man was on his way to the local doughnut shop.

Oh well, it has been a while since I attended online traffic school. Maybe I can best my last time of 1.4 hours from start to finish for completing the reading and test sections (supposed to take 8 hours, but I am the speed cheater reader supreme).

I don't remember when exactly the Highway Patrol target was applied to my car. I only know that my bank account started taking some hits in the last about 6 years. I can be going with the flow of traffic and get singled out by Officer Quota. I can be in rush hour traffic and get a ticket for going 20 miles per hour over the speed limit (that one I should have fought, but I am a woosy baby). I have even gotten a ticket for coasting downhill too fast.

A couple of years ago, my collection was so big that I became the proud recipient of a DMV warning letter . . .too many tickets+too little time = DMV Nasty Gram. For a while, my insurance record resembled an early inning baseball score, points wise and my husband had enough material on me in terms of driving that I could not compete.

Recently, I thought I had finally turned a corner. . .foolish mortal that I am. But no, I just had to find Quota Man and now I am stuck with a fine and a list of acceptable traffic schools.

Where is the Krispy Kreme light when you need it????