Look What The Cat Dragged In…

I was re-reading my old post about my kitty surprise and I realized that there is so much more I can tell you about our early days of misadventure with these two fur balls we brought into our lives.

We got Tika shortly after we shacked up started to live together back in the early 90’s. Ah, the waning days of hair-bands and high waisted jeans. Good times!! Good f*cking times…. Anyways, we felt our wee little kitty was lonesome during the day while we were out making money to spend on booze and cigarettes and more booze church tithes, and so we adopted another kitty, slated to be euthanised if she wasn’t adopted. She was a long haired black cat we named Silky (for the Gaelic term meaning seal… Yeah, I had just read Diana Gabaldon’s bodice ripper “Outlander”, and thought I was worldly with this term. Don’t judge me…..)

On any given evening, we’d get the cats all ripped out on cat-nip and watch them fight. The epic kitty-cat beat-downs, were, in my humble opinion, better than any Saturday night bar fights I someone would encounter during an evening out. They, in turn, would launch themselves off of our sleeping heads every morning at about 5 AM, racing each other down the hallway . We had an understanding, you see. Their addiction to the ‘nip was acceptable as long as we allowed them to terrorize us in our slumbering hours.

This is honestly a truthful account of all that our kitties did.

One time, after many countless LIVE mice being brought into our house by our faithful felines, when I tried so desperately to rid our shack of vermin infestation, I had had enough. Silky had oh so proudly deposited her newest gift to me in my dining area, so I quickly picked up the latest little critter by the tail to chuck it back out in the yard, when the wee motherfucker managed to bite the pad of my finger. I felt the teeth meet inside my skin. One tetanus shot later, I felt that I had seen it all.

Oh no. No, I did not.

Shortly after, Tika brought me a live lizard. Again, obviously not learning through my mistakes, I picked it up to chuck it away from my house, and the tail came off in my hand, the lizard dropped to the ground and ran to freedom. I stood in horror and a sick kind of amazement, watching the tail remnant wiggle about in the palm of my hand.

One more. Tika, the mighty huntress, raced into the house, avoiding my attempts at catching her with what I thought was a leaf in her mouth. There, in my kitchen, she released her catch. The bat then flew down the hallway into our bedroom. A BAT!!!!!!!!! A BAT!!!!!!! THEY CARRY RABIES!!!!!! AND ONE IS FLYING AROUND MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now, I am not a “girly” kind of girl. I have always been able to pick up all manner of creatures and have never worried or felt faint about it. But the bat. I simpered and batted (HA!) my eyes at Dan, who then managed to catch the wee critter and toss it out in the forest.

Anyways. In closing, cats can be disgusting.

Shiz My Husband Says….

Word to the wise. My sense of humour is a bit on the foul and strange and awful side sometimes. So is my hubby’s. PLEASE keep that in mind when reading this post, as it honestly makes me LOL…..

The other night, as I was engaged in my nightly snuggle with my 15 year old cat Tika, I started to think of the future of her little life on this planet. She is crotchety and bitchy, she hisses at my dog every chance she gets, even though he has been around for almost seven years of her existence on this planet. She shits on my carpet every once in a while, barfs up goopy (and warm, I might add) hairballs, of which I have had the pleasure of slipping on during one of my in-the-middle-of-the-night-pee trips. But she is all mine, my sweet furry old lady. I love her dearly, even while cursing her very existence in my life, of which said cursing is usually expleted during the cleaning up of her barf and/or shit and me desperately holding back the Voms.

So, as I sat in my chair, my kitty blissing out on my lap with a constant scratch about the ears, her purrs rumbling in her throat and my heart, I softly said to Dan… “You know, if I ever had to make the decision to put Tika down, I think this is how I would want it done.”

To which he replied “That won’t work. The bullet might accidentally hit you.”

More Shiz My Kids Say… (and do….)

The other night my daughter walked by our beloved dog, Tutter, while he lay snoozing in front of the fire.

“Tutter,” she said, “you are a Fart-Face and here’s the proof…”

and she leaned over and farted in his face.

He said, She said

A couple weeks ago, I had to phone the local health unit to go over a few safety guidelines for preparing a new food item for the hot lunch program at my kids school.

I spoke to man (whom I shall refer to as R)  about proper techniques, and avoiding cross-contamination. He was very helpful, and mentioned to me that he would have to come out and inspect our facilities to make sure we weren’t poisoning the kids on a regular basis.

The following week, just as we were finishing up the lunch, a woman walked into the gym where we serve the food. She was wearing a pair of fantastic black high heeled boots, which I instantly coveted.

She walked up to me, extended a rather large hand and in a deep man’s voice said “Hello, I’m R.”

Luckily for me, I didn’t a) Laugh out loud, and b) Make a complete ass of myself.

I held it together. I was cool. I kept my shiz under control. I live in an area that embraces all walks of life, all manner of living, and equality of everyone.

I however cannot control my crazy brain-thoughts. Certain questions kept rolling around in my head. Questions pertaining to particular body parts. And whether or not these body parts are still there.

And for obvious reasons, the scene in Crocodile Dundee, where he grabs the drag queen’s twig n’ berries in the bar kept running through my head.

 

***

PS. I honestly and for reals think its great that she is now living as she needs to live.

PPS. I want to get to know her so I can one day ask if I can have a peek.

PPPS. Seriously though, I’m not a bad person.

 

The Shiz My Kids Say….

One time, when my son was about 4 and my daughter was about 2, we were heading home from a long day in town, where we had been doing some sort of family thing. The Hubs and I were tuckered out, and I for one, was ready for a glass bottle of wine to make me feel lots better….

The kids were starting to bicker in the back seat. Ah. How absolutely mind-blowingly motherfuckingly EXCRUCIATING to listen to your 2 small children fight about such matters as “She looked at me” or “He said poop”….

Hubs gripped the steering wheel tight and took it upon himself to threaten the children with a good ol’ fashioned spanking if they kept it up… (note for parents-to-be or Judgy McJudgersons: we have never spanked the children, but it’s ALWAYS awesome, and totally acceptable, to use as a threat especially in dire situations such as these.)

Silence grew from the back seat as the children pondered their Daddy’s giant hand smacking their teeny (and cute, IMHO) bottoms….

My son, after a minute of said pondering, crossed his arms indignantly, raised his chin defiantly and said in a loud, disgusted and clear voice…. “ASSHOLE….”

Lordy, let me tell you, The Hubs had a really hard time driving while trying not let on that we were both inundated with a mad case of the Giggles…. Snorts and muffled guffaws followed….

His execution of the word, with his tone and deflection, and topped off with the arms crossed, was absolutely perfect....

This one time….

Long before I met my Hubs, I used to hang out with my long-ago best friend, S, and her boyfriend, B, all the time. Seriously. ALL. THE. TIME. I was the third wheel, which isn’t as sad as it sounds, because we were all such great friends, and had oodles of fun times together.

Well. One night, a few other friends joined us and we set ourselves to a night of drinking. Duh, of course, what else does one do in their early 20’s for fun??? We tended to get silly, and decided to play Truth or Dare.

(I’m laughing out loud typing this, as I recall the events of the evening…)

So, dares were made and completed, truths, both icky and fascinating were revealed, drinks were drunk…. At one point B was dared to put on one S’s dresses, which he did, although in retrospect he was a little too eager to don the lovely blue frilly lacey number. We had some good laughs about that.

Well, then…. it was  S’s turn, and she chose B. She dared him to go in the bedroom with her, we all rolled our eyes, and they pranced off.

The rest of us drank some more, laughed some more.. and then, hey, we noticed B and S were still in the bedroom.

“Ugh. They are NOT doing what I think they’re doing, are they?” I questioned the group.

We grew silent, hoping to hear proof. (Juvenile? Yeah…) It was quiet.

We huddled and improvised an ambush of drunken and awesome proportions.

A couple of us went outside the ground level apartment to the bedroom window, while the others went to the bedroom door, and on the count of 3, they flung the door open and flicked on the lights, while my partner in crime and I peered through the window like a couple of perverted Peeping Toms.

What we saw was the two of them going for it.

And B was still wearing the dress.

The Shiz My Kids Say…

One time, when my daughter was about 3, I found myself engaged in a conversation with her about her birth. We talked for a while about how she grew in my tummy, and then I pushed her out and nursed her and so forth.

She was quietly absorbing all this, and then she looked at me, her clear blue eyes intently staring into  my own and asked:

“Remember a long time ago when you grew in my tummy and I pushed you out and I was your Mommy?”

I said that no, I didn’t and she was very insistent that it happened.

You may call it childish embellishment or active imagination. The Buddhist in me, however,  got goosebumps….

The Prodigal Swim

I love my lake.

Now, if you read this blog or know me, you already knew that. For so many years now, I’ve been having a mad passionate love affair with this extraordinary body of water that I am so blessed to live by..

Every Spring, on Mother’s Day, my sister and I take an icy plunge into its waters, sort of like a baptismal entry into summer.

Every Summer, I seek the lake every chance I get… early morning dips after a run, late evening skinny dips by myself, all day excursions with the kids in tow.

Every Fall, I try to extend the swimming season by choosing a warm day to remind myself yet again why I love this water.

In fact, after I kick the old bucket, I plan to be cremated and tossed into the waters, becoming a part of the life-cycle of this oasis forevermore.

Last week, it was HOT. Wednesday morning I went for my standard 5 km run along the shore. When I was done, I was dripping sweat. It was less like September warmth, and more like July hotness, and the lure of the lake was irresistable.

I went down to the pebbly beach known by the locals as Turtle Beach (named for a very large rock whose “back” peeks out of the water like a turtle’s shell), stripped down and went for it.

Oh. My. God.

The water was delightful. Cool, not cold. And so clear. I could see to the bottom, even though I swam a good distance out. It swirled around my body, dancing on my skin, and I felt so alive. So thankful. So happy. So grateful.

And then, I noticed that the sun was behind me, and I could see my shadow self on the lake bed 20 feet below me, swimming and water dancing. It evoked in me a kind of childlike wonderment. I couldn’t get out of the water. I swam and swam.

I realized then, that I was having a prodigal swim. One that will rest in my heart through the cold, dark and gray winter months ahead. It will be the life line I will cling to when the moroseness of the season weighs heavy on my heart. It will be what I look forward to as the season begin to tease us with change, and the sun begins again to show us how warm it can truly become.

In The Zone….

I started running about 2 years ago. I dabbled in it, not really knowing how to push myself. Then I signed up for a 10 week running clinic, and finished off the training with a 10 k run, which I completed in just over an hour. (Slow, I know, but hey, considering I’m in my *cough* late 30’s and just started this whole running bizness, I think it’s pretty freakin’ awesome….)

I love it.

I also hate it.

I hate it when it’s cold and rainy outside and I know for a fact my nose will be running (tee-hee) just as fast as I am….

I hate it when I have a bad case of the PMS-itis, and I know damn well I’d feel way better if I got my ass out that door and ran a few kms.

I hate it the most when it’s cold and rainy AND I have the PMS on top of it….

But, see, the weird thing is, I only hate it until I’m actually doing it. Then, somehow, I begin to love it….

This is what I love: The even beat of my steps, the fresh air, the view of my beloved Kootenay Lake along the road, my breath, my muscles working,  an odd mixture of tunes on my iPod in my ears, the exhilaration of pushing myself a little harder, or the delight of taking it easy.

When I run, I lose my worries of the day, I become oblivious to everything but the here and now. I think it’s a form of meditation for me.

Plus, weird and randomly awesome things happen when I run. The best, by far, is when a moose ran right out in front of me. She didn’t notice me and I didn’t notice her until we were about 30 feet from each other. She jumped, I jumped, she ran up the hill, I stopped dead in my tracks and marveled at the coolness of what just happened.

I know!!! A moose!!!!!! How Canadian is that????

Anyway, I’ve never felt better about my own body, I feel so good in my own skin, and I owe it to my running and my yoga practice.

I’ll leave you with a very cool quote. One of my trainers in the clinic was in the marathon part of a triathlon once, and he was having a rough time and started to walk… When a friend of his, a very competitive athlete, and also Quebecois, ran by him and yelled:

“Eet’s a fuckin’ RACE… RUUUUUUUUUUN!!!!!!!”

Bad kitty. BAD!!!!

I’m old enough to now preface some stories of mine with me saying “Years ago…” Which, obviously means I have amassed enough fodder for laughs to keep my little bloggy going for some time now…. And I love to tell a good story.

So, years ago, when Dan and I first moved in together, waaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the mid 90’s, we got ourselves two kitties. Tika and Silky. They were very sweet, they were loved and doted upon, they drove us crazy, they were our babies… You know, before we had actual human babies.

One night, as we lay in bed, drooling and snoring away, completely oblivious to the night prowlings of our feline friends, I became aware of some odd sound. A sound that I couldn’t immediately identify. See, I was in the midst of a dream, so struggling my way out of dreamland into conciousness only added to the confusion of what was about to happen to me.

The sound I speak of was a squeaky sound.

The sound that, oh say, a mouse might make.

I woke, disoriented, to find my black cat Silky sitting on my chest. I was all “Umph… Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhh….” and was SHOCKED, and also very DISMAYED to see, by the moonlit night casting a dim cool glow in our bedroom that she had a live mouse in her mouth.

Yep. I said it. A live mouse.

And, oh, my dears….. That isn’t the worst of it…..

She saw I was awake and proceeded to spit the live mouse onto my chest. Where it squiggled and squeaked and scurried upon my naked flesh.

I shrieked, and threw the blanket off of me, which included the mouse and my cat.

Thud went the cat, and thump went the mouse, after flying through the air and hitting the wall. The mouse went running, the cat went chasing and I was left, wide awake at 2 AM, wondering if there was any form of psychotherapy that handled this kind of shit.

And Dan….. My sweet, oblivious, comatose man….. Well, he kept on snoring and drooling and dreaming away. I really wanted to punch him for not being remotely aware of the trauma I had just endured….

Frickin’ cats…..