Tag Archives: husband

Lost Kitty Tale

cats, etc., family, ,

Once there was a kitty who chose us as her family. My husband had seen her around the neighborhood, and one day she came trotting through the flowerbed up to our door and asked to be let in.

Dan instantly wanted to keep her. She was a young-ish calico, and he knew how much I love calicos. But I wasn’t sure. Our most recent calico, Julia, who was the most beautiful cat in the world (or so she told us) had died just a little while before, and I didn’t think I was ready to give my heart to another one.

Then fate stepped in. We saw a flyer in our neighborhood for a missing calico cat. The address was very close to us. So we called the people who put up the flyer and invited them over to check out the stray.

At this point, any normal person would have held out the cat and said, “Is this her?”

But I’m not (as you probably have noticed) a normal person. I left the cat in the bathroom, which is where we keep stray cats until they pass a vet check.

I approached the guy, the putative owner. “So you’ve lost your cat.”

“Yes,” he said.

“A calico.”

“Yes.”

“Is she thin or chonky?”

“Medium, I guess.”

“What color are her eyes?”

“Yellow.”

I continued the interrogation.

“What color is her nose?”

“Pink.”

“What’s her chin look like?”

“I don’t know. Nothing special, I guess.”

“What color are her feet?”

“White….” (He was beginning to catch on to the not-normal thing.)

He was batting less than 50 percent. Her nose was pink and her feet were white, which could have been true of any cat. But there were telltales. The stray was slender, not medium. There was a slight gray smudge on her chin. She had one green eye and one yellow, which was a dead giveaway.

At that point, I brought the cat out.

“No,” the neighbor said, disappointed. “That’s not her.” And he sadly left.

That was the moment that I knew that not only had she chosen us, but I had chosen her too.

We named her Dushenka (Russian for “Little Soul”) and she stayed with us for 12 years. She still escaped and went walkabout on occasion, just to keep her hand—er, her paw—in, but she always came back to us. We were hers.

The Cat Burglars

etc., funny things, language, television, ,

I used to live in a drafty log cabin on a windy hill. There were plenty of odd noises, especially at night. Now I live in a regular home in a windy valley, with lots of clutter. There are still plenty of odd noises, especially at night.

It’s been my policy to blame the cats (usually from three to five of them) for any noises – rattling, thumping, skittering, whining, tapping, crashing, howling, et endless cetera. Even if every cat in the house is occupying my lap at the time, I still try to find a way to blame alarming noises on them.

One night, however, my husband and I were peacefully sleeping when I thought I heard a noise in the living room.

It sounded like whispering.

Whatever else they do, cats don’t whisper. For once I couldn’t blame them. It had to be burglars, I thought, discussing what they wanted to take or which house to hit next or why we had such crappy stuff and was any of it worth anything.

I didn’t want to wake my husband, because then I’d have my N.O.W. card taken away, so I tried to remember where we put the baseball bat and extended my hearing as far as it would go. I crept closer to the bedroom door, where I could hear the sounds better.

Then I realized that the noise was indeed people whispering. In French.

Even in my fearful, dazed state, I couldn’t believe that there were actually burglars in my house, in Ohio, speaking French.

So I tiptoed into the living room. If for some unlikely reason, there were French-speaking burglars, I could astound them with my knowledge of French, threaten to call the gendarmes, or at least ask them for directions to the bibliothèque. (That’s most of what I remember of my high school and college French. I also remember some of my college Russian, in which I can say useful things like “Excuse me, please. Where do they sell books on history?” and “Yes, cabbage is a good thing.” (At least I would never be bored or starve.) But I digress.)

When I tentatively poked my head into the living room, however, I found the French speakers were on the television. A foreign film was playing. Funny. I hadn’t left the TV on when I went to bed.

Hm. My husband doesn’t watch foreign films or know any French or other foreign languages. (Actually, that’s not quite true. He knows a song in high school German that goes “My hat has three corners. Three corners has my hat. If it doesn’t have three corners, it’s not my hat.” But I digress some more.) Besides, he was asleep in bed.

Then I realized what had happened. Someone had activated the remote and selected a film channel. With the sound very low. Although I couldn’t name the culprit, it was clearly Matches or Maggie or Chelsea or Shaker, all of whom were giving me the “Who, me?” look. One of them had done it, or they had all cooked up the plot together. There was no use dusting for paw-prints. No doubt they had wiped them off with their floofy tails.

So the one time I knew it couldn’t be the cats, it was. Now I blame them for everything. Always.

The Horse I Rode In On

etc., funny things, humor, travel, , , , , , ,

It all started with a vulgar radio ad and turned into an adventure. ([sultry female voice: I wanna ride!])

I really hated the ads, but the premise was intriguing—a weekend horseback camping trip, complete with guide. So Dan and I gathered up Sheila and Harold—another couple who had an interest in horses—and signed up.

(All this was in the days before I abused my back by riding an Arabian horse bareback. The first time I annoyed it was when I had to carry wood up two flights of stairs or freeze to death. But I digress.)

Anyway, we met Larry, our guide, who showed up with four horses and all manner of camping equipment. He set up two tents for us and even found a way to connect my husband’s CPAP machine to power. Then we went out on the trail.

I didn’t have any trouble managing my horse at that point. But Sheila couldn’t get her horse to giddy-up no matter how she kicked, shook the reins, and verbally encouraged it along. It remained stubborn. (Later in life, Sheila and Harold bought horses of their own. Sheila even taught her horse dressage. But I digress again.)

The woods we rode through were as scenic as could be. There were trees that provided cool shade in the heat of the summer day. Unfortunately, Dan’s horse made a game of bumping into tree trunks and whacking his knees. The horses proceeded at a walk or a trot and occasionally broke into a canter. Frankly, I preferred the walk and the canter. The walk gave me time to look around and the canter was exhilarating and didn’t involve bumping up and down quite as much as the bruising trot.

We rode deep into the woods and then the nature, which was all around us, called. Dan had no problems with this (aside from getting down off his horse) and neither did Harold, but Sheila and I had to pee al fresco. (Fortunately, this was a skill I acquired in my youth on backpacking trips. I knew enough to carry tissues and avoid poison ivy. This is one of the only times I can truly be said to have had penis envy. But I digress some more.)

When we returned to camp in the evening, we learned that Larry was also our cook and an old hand at producing good meals over a wood fire. Not to say gourmet meals. This was before glamping was a thing.

Larry also rustled up a fine breakfast as we crawled out of our tents. We ached not just from the (admittedly) less-than-strenuous riding, but also from sleeping on thin tarps that only emphasized the pebbles beneath. We were all more interested in having several cups of very good coffee than getting back on the horses. This, of course, would cause a recurrence of the peeing problem later in the day.

Around the campfire that night, Larry told us how he had started his business and how other campers spent the whole time galloping their horses from one end of a field to the other and back again. No marauding trees or recalcitrant steeds for them.

The next day, we were back to our regular lives and jobs. There were some mementos of our experience. Dan had bashed-up knees. And you should have seen my inner thighs. (Well, no, you shouldn’t.)

While it was a memorable experience, we seriously doubted that we would be repeat customers. We were just too candy-ass. All in all, the adventure was like the Tower of Terror ride at DisneyWorld. It’s not that the horseback adventure was terrifying. It’s just that I’m glad I went on it once, but I’d hesitate to try it again, especially since my back won’t let me.

You Haven’t Changed a Bit

education, etc., funny things, , , ,

Well, yes I have. More than a bit. I’m going to a high school reunion this year (one of the big ones), and I don’t expect to hear that I haven’t changed.

Of course, most of us have changed. In addition to our age, our weight, hair color, careers, and family are not likely to be the same as they were in high school. (I would say, like the old joke, that I can still wear the earrings I wore in high school. But that’s not true. I didn’t get my ears pierced until I was in my 20s. But I digress.)

Many things have happened in my life that I’m fairly sure will surprise the other alums. Here’s a list of the sort that some reunions publish in a handy booklet in order to re-introduce ourselves. Instead of places I’ve traveled and impressive career milestones, I offer for your consideration these changes I’ve gone through.

  1. I’m married and have been for 41 years, which I never expected back then. No children. (Or, obviously, grandchildren, which I know many of my former classmates have. I anticipate having many pictures offered to me for oohs and ahs. I’ll start practicing now. But I digress again.)
  2. I kept my birth name. (I don’t like the term “maiden name” because it implies that all brides are virgins, and we know this is not the case. I wore an ivory dress so no one would snicker. But I digress some more.)
  3. I now swear like a highly educated sailor. I learned how when I was a waitress, working my way through college.
  4. I have bipolar disorder. I talk about it openly. When I was in high school (and after), I had a reputation for being moody, difficult, and weird, which there was also no hiding. So at least now there’s an explanation for that.
  5. Despite the fact that I majored in English in both undergrad and grad school, I have never become a burger-flipper or a retail worker. I’ve managed to stay employed more or less in my field, having been an editor/writer, college teaching assistant, and now, ghostwriter. (I’ll skip right over my tenure as a meeting transcriptionist (even though I’m the world’s worst typist, never having taken it in school, which proved to be a big mistake when I had to write all those papers in college) and a security system monitor. I also once had a job inventorying hardware stores at night after they closed. One does what one has to in order to keep cat food in the bowl. But I digress yet again.)
  6. I have tattoos. Two of punctuation, one of books, one for my mother (a compass rose and a yellow rose), and one for my husband (heart locket and key; he has a matching one).

The last time I had a big reunion to go to, I was beyond anxious. My high school days were not happy ones. I asked my hairstylist to make me look sane and successful. My friend Mary Jo, who worked for the local paper (now retired), wrote a column about my pre- and post-reunion experiences. This time, I’m encouraged by the number of my former classmates who’ve said they would like to see me there.

I’ve said I’d go to at least the casual drinks get-together (oh, yes, I also drink alcohol now, at least to the extent of a couple of beers). And I’ll bring my husband, who’s entertaining because he looks like Jerry Garcia. More than that, I can’t promise. I believe I’ll skip the picnic/dance. My knees are shot— bionic knees to come. In that, I know I resemble some of my former classmates. However, just sitting there while everyone else dances doesn’t appeal.

As for the rest of it, I’m no longer so worried about appearing sane and successful. This time, I’d rather appear happier and more interesting.

Saga of the CPAP

etc., family, funny things, humor, ,

“You want me to put KY jelly up my nose?” I asked.

“Basically, yes,” the tech replied.

It was my first appointment getting a CPAP machine. The tech who fitted the mask warned me of possible nasal irritation and suggested I use a “non-petroleum personal lubricant.” Hence my question.

For those not in the know, CPAP machines are the best solution for sleep apnea, which occurs when you stop breathing multiple times during the night. It can be just as serious as it sounds. Snoring and feeling exhausted all day (which I had) are some of the symptoms, and being overweight is one of the contributing factors (which I must admit to).

I was diagnosed after going through a sleep study with assorted wires glued all over my head and body. I had to sleep like that, if I could. I brought along a stuffed bunny to help. (The tech who applied the wires quizzed me—did I know what EKG meant? Yes, I did. Did I know what EEG meant? Yes, I did. Did I know what EGG meant. “Egg,” I replied, evidently the first person ever to get it right. But I digress.)

It was thus determined that I do indeed have sleep apnea. (Or at least hypopnea, a slightly milder version, from the roots “hypo” for low and “pnea” for breathing. Think “hypoglycemia” and “pneumonia.” Now I digress pedantically.)

I was then fitted for the CPAP machine, which consists of a box and a mask. The box blows air rhythmically into your nose while you sleep, thus forcing you to breathe. The mask channels the air into your nose, along with the smell of whatever you had for dinner, if your bedroom is just above the kitchen, which ours is.

The first CPAP machine I got had a tattletale chip in it to record whether I was using it or not. They were in awe when they discovered that I used it even when napping.

Actually, my husband has the full-blown version of sleep apnea and started using a CPAP before I did. His snoring was prodigious as well. He could wake both of us when he really got going. The two of us together created a racket that would raise the dead, if we didn’t both die from sleep apnea first.

He has more trouble with his mask than I do, and his problem can’t be solved with a popular sexual aid. For some reason, probably the stress he puts on them, the straps get tangled, and the plastic parts break. He’s always asking me to untangle or tighten the straps. Sometimes I have to adjust them in the middle of the night when I can’t see well. Inevitably, I velcro the straps to his hair, which is curly enough to be the loops to the hooks.

We take our CPAPs with us whenever we travel. It’s a hassle. The air pressure machine, the hose, and the mask take up half the space in a carry-on. There are smaller ones, including one that’s no bigger than a small bandaid but is way too expensive. Besides, I’d have to go through another sleep study to get a prescription for a new CPAP. My bunny’s up for it, but I’m not.

The Joy of Napping

cats, etc., funny things, humor, pets, , , , , , , ,

Dibujo de una nia en la cama preparada para dormir, es de noche, se est tapando con una manta mientras sonrie

Robert Fulghum tells us that he learned everything he needed to know in kindergarten. I can’t go all the way with him on #1—Share everything—especially when it comes to Facebook, but I’m a solid believer in #12—Take a nap every afternoon. (Well, and #9—Flush.)

I love naps—the sensual pleasure of snuggling into my bed in a cozy little nest of pillows, sheets, and blankets; the quiet purr of the fan and the cat who perches on my hip; the knowledge that, for a time, I can let go of the cares of the day; the promise of renewed spirit and energy; the satisfaction of turning off my phone.

Two of the best ways that I know of improving my mood are having a meal and taking a nap. The one often follows closely on the other, a phenomenon I am told is called “postprandial torpor.” (I’ve often wished I could call in sick to work and claim that affliction. Or “rhinotillexomania.” They sound so serious. But if anyone at your workplace knows Latin, you’re busted. (Which they actually did at one place I worked.) But I digress.)

Naps, however, are part of the reason that I can no longer work regular hours in a regular office. I find that bosses get upset if you take the phrase “break room” too literally. In the past, I’ve contemplated keeping a sleeping bag under my desk, but that would never work. Let’s face it—I snore. Prodigiously. Someone would be sure to notice, and object. (When I was traveling with my mother, she used to beg me to let her get to sleep before I nodded off. But I digress again.)

Fortunately, I work at home, so breaks and naps are entirely my own choice, except in case of deadlines. The transition from desk chair to bed is easy. I’m usually already wearing my jammies, and the commute is just up the stairs. (I can’t nap on the couch. It’s too uncomfortable. I used to be able to nap face-down on an airline tray table. This was useful because the flight attendant, seeing me, would think I was dead and leave me alone for the rest of the flight for fear of alarming the other passengers. But I digress yet again.)

Unfortunately, I’m not able to take “cat naps”—a misnomer if I ever heard one. My cats sleep on average 18 hours a day, and invariably right where a human wants to walk or sit. One of my cats even snores—daintily, but audibly. And no, it’s not a purr. (We’ve been thinking of getting a tiny CPAP machine for her, but we think she’d object to the mask. And cats have unpleasant ways of making their objections known. If you have a cat, you know what I mean. But I digress some more.)

Short, 20-minute naps do me no good. They don’t refresh me at all. In fact, they leave me more muddle-headed than ever. But the real reason I can’t take short naps is that it often takes me 20 minutes or more, usually of reading, to fall asleep. Since that’s the case, it’s hardly worth sleeping less than an hour or two.

But some of the time, even two hours of napping doesn’t do the job. Hence I have invented the Mega-Nap, of at least four hours. Mega-Napping doesn’t usually interfere with my nighttime sleep, either. On one memorable occasion, I Mega-Napped for a good six hours, and woke at 9:30 p.m., just in time to go back to bed and sleep for another 10 hours, giving the cats a run for their snoozes. I also suffer from Nap Attacks, when I hit the wall—hard— and simply must nap, collapse into a heap, or bite someone’s head off. Napping is usually the wisest choice.

With apologies to Robert Fulghum, I do see one glaring difference between kindergarten naps and grown-up naps. Children resist them and resent them and get cranky when they have to take one. Adults seek them and savor them and get cranky if they can’t have one.

Yes, No, and OMG NO!

cooking, etc., family, food, funny things, ,

Sometimes I’m like a toddler who turns up her nose at any new food. Sometimes I’m like a teenager who will eat anything that doesn’t move. But I have my rules.

“Yes” foods. I will eat (and have eaten) sushi, octopus, eel, snails, and goat. (I first ate sushi when it was impossible to refuse, hand-made by my martial arts instructor’s wife.) I even once ate a raw oyster, though it just tasted briny. Now that I’ve at least tried it, I have no desire to do it again. It was the texture I objected to, and raw oysters pretty much have only one texture—slimy. (You may say that octopus, eel, and snails all have a slimy texture, but not if they’re prepared correctly. Octopus can be gelatinous or rubbery if you under- or overcook it, but is tender and toothsome if cooked for the right length of time. Eel is great when barbecued. Snails have the texture of chicken gizzards, which I learned to eat as a child, and have a flavor just like scampi because they’re served in garlic butter. But I digress. At length.)

“No” foods. My husband trained himself to like okra just so he could say he’ll eat anything. Except veal. He has humanitarian concerns about veal. I say good for him! But not good for me. I won’t eat okra no matter how it’s cooked. I just can’t get over the combination of slimy and hairy textures of okra.

Mustard is another of my nos. I had to tell my husband a reason I didn’t like it so he would stop bugging me to “just try it.” I told him that it tasted metallic. I did manage honey mustard dressing that I couldn’t avoid on a salad, but I didn’t enjoy it. (I once had dinner at a sushi restaurant with a group of people. The high point of the evening was when a husband asked his wife, “Do you really want me to tell the kids you wouldn’t even try it?” Her glare was positively poisonous. But I digress some more.)

Brussels sprouts were a big no for me until I had them in Slovenia. I didn’t know enough Slovenian (none, that is) to ask for the recipe, but they were delicious. We’ve tried roasting them and sprinkling them with parmesan cheese, and they’re tolerable that way, but I still long for the Slovenian version, whatever it was.

Most of my aversions are governed by texture. For instance, I never cared for egg salad because it’s too often mushy. (One time I ate mushy egg salad because it was impossible not to. My sister’s MIL served the sandwiches to us as we were passing through the area. My husband finally made it agreeable by the simple technique of making it chunky rather than pureeing it with an immersion blender or, as we refer to it, a motor boat. But I digress again.)

“OMG NO!” food. Liver-and-onions is the one food I can’t eat no matter how it’s prepared or how I try. And boy, have I tried. My mother used to serve it pretty regularly when I was a kid. She finally gave up on trying to get me to eat it when I literally (not figuratively) gagged on it, which upset the rest of the family’s dining pleasure. I feel that since I actually did try it in childhood, I’m under no obligation to try it again. I know tastes can change with age, but gagging isn’t likely to. I just hope I never get into a situation where the only polite thing to do is to try it.

Munchy Memories

cooking, etc., food, , , ,

Food is one of the most powerful ways to evoke memory. Just the smell of biscuits or chocolate chip cookies can take you right back to your mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Food is a trigger—a pleasant one—that helps you recall warm feelings and better times. In other words, food and the past are intimately intertwined. I have lots of that kind of food associations.

When my husband’s friend John and I used to go on what we called a “hot date,” we would invariably go to a diner and then thrift shopping. Maybe a bag of M&Ms to share for dessert. (My husband knew all about this and approved. He knew we wouldn’t take “hot date” literally. He also doesn’t mind when I joke about the dancing boys coming over when he’s away or my lover Raoul. But I digress.)

There’s a very retro diner in a nearby suburb called the Hasty Tasty, so that’s where we usually went, though sometimes we’d hit Waffle House or a small, family-run Mexican place. The Hasty Tasty has booths, waitresses who don’t greet you with “Hi, I’m Amy. I’ll be your server today,” and daily specials, my favorite of which is the chicken-n-dumplings on Thursdays. I haven’t been there in a while since John died, but I remember him and our dates fondly. I miss him even more than the Thursday special.

My Aunt Thelma owned a small hotel right across from another diner in Campton, KY. This was back in the 70s, so it was authentically retro, with the counter-n-stools, jukebox devices at every seat, and a pinball machine in the corner. They made a mean burger, grilled on a flattop, of course, and their chili was amazing. Along with the penny candy in the general store that Aunt Thelma also owned, the diner features in my favorite memories of Campton.

Comfort food helps you cope with feelings of depression and loneliness. That’s the magic it wields. I have many types of comfort food. Mashed potatoes (a common comfort food for many), mac-n-cheese, and chicken fried rice all somehow make me feel better.

In this part of my life, I’ve become a semi-foodie (or at least a gourmand), but when I want a grilled cheese sandwich, I want the kind that diners serve or that my mother made for me. White bread and American cheese (even Velveeta) are what I crave. Sliced diagonally The grilled sandwich that my husband made for me recently was delicious. It featured a thick slice of ham and Havarti cheese, but it just didn’t hit the right notes the way a more humble sandwich does.

I also have fond memories of a truly non-foodie food: the do-it-yourself pizza kit that came in a box. It included a packet of what you could turn into dough with the addition of water, a long metal can of sauce, and a smaller can of parmesan. If you paid extra, you could get one with pepperoni. Throughout my childhood, this and school cafeteria “pizza” were the only kind I had.

We didn’t have a round pan for baking it, so we used a rectangular baking tray. It was too long for the pizza dough, so we had a short, rectangular pizza. We used to fight over the corner pieces. (We did have an old, round lard can lid, but it was battered and lumpy, not good for baking even the least imposing pizza. But I digress again.)

Another favorite childhood memory is watermelon in the backyard in the summertime. Unlike eating watermelon in the kitchen/dining room, at the picnic table, we could simply dispense with plates and napkins and let the juice roll down our chins and make them sticky. We could spit seeds for distance.

But there was one other aspect of backyard watermelon that made the treat even watermelon-ier. That was a light sprinkling of salt. Salt improves most foods it comes in contact with—every form of eggs and potatoes, to name just two. Even desserts need a pinch of salt in the recipe to make them dessert-ier. On Food Network competition shows, when they say a dish “lacks seasoning,” what they mean is salt.

I tried to introduce my husband to the pleasure of watermelon with salt. He tried it, but it didn’t impress him. For Dan, it wasn’t a sense memory the way it is for me (unlike his mother’s stuffed peppers, which I have never been able to successfully replicate).

We are creating our own sense memories, though, and they’ve been added to my list of comfort foods. He makes mac-n-cheese with tuna and peas, shepherd’s pie (which has the advantage of having lots of mashed potatoes on it and gravy in the bottom to soak them in), and something we call deconstructed cheeseburger mac.

These will figure prominently in the years to come when I need soothing, comfort, and memories.

Beware the Sentient Cereal

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My husband hates TV commercials and other forms of advertising. There’s nothing odd about that. Most of us do.

One thing he objects to is sexism that targets men. If he sees a commercial that presents a man having trouble caring for a child or cleaning the kitchen, then a woman swoops in to solve all his problems, his head explodes. “That makes men look incompetent. That’s sexist!” he says. “You taught me that!” (Well, that’s true. I guess I did. So many commercials, even in these more enlightened days, depict women with disgusting, flimsy garbage bags and the hefty-hefty-hunk providing non-stinky bags as he ripples his pecs. But I digress.)

One of the ads that he has particular trouble with is the one where little angels—cherubs, really—manufacture toilet paper. “They’re dead babies,” he insists, “and they’re making ass-wipe. It’s bad enough putting dead babies to work, but this is demeaning.” That’s a hard argument to argue with. (It’s no use telling him that it’s a metaphor for softness. He only believes in metaphors when he creates them. But I digress again.)

Another one of his least favorites is the Pepto Bismol commercial where they sing about assorted gastrointestinal ailments. “Turn the sound down!” he yells if I have the remote. The idea is for me to mute it before they get to “diarrhea.” Somehow, singing about that bothers him more than the other ailments. (I’m troubled by the fact that they touch their hips when they say the word. I tend not to shoot from the hip, so to speak. But I digress some more.)

He also objects to billboards or restaurant signs that, for example, show a pig offering plates of pork to people. “That’s horrible!” he says. “They’re encouraging people to eat one of their own kind.” He’s right about that, I have to admit. It’s kind of creepy.

Where we seriously part ways is over one certain cereal commercial. It shows cereal squares frolicking, so I’d describe them as anthropomorphized. The cereal bits chase each other and then one eats another one. To Dan, it’s almost as bad as a B-grade horror movie. “I hate this commercial. They’re eating each other!” he cries. “That’s cannibalism!”

“It’s cereal,” I say. “At least pigs are sentient beings. Cereal isn’t.”

“It’s cannibalism, anyway. They’re being portrayed as sentient,” he says. “They walk and talk and play on slides.”

“But it’s just cereal!” I reply. That never ends the argument though, and it doesn’t prevent having the same conversation every time that ad comes on. I just have to wait until another ad comes on and hope it doesn’t trigger another one of his outbursts.

(Some would say that pigs aren’t sentient, but I’m willing to agree with Dan on that. They’re very intelligent. In my worldview (which, of course, is the correct one), most animals are sentient. They have thoughts and emotions, and not all their behaviors are instinctual. You’ll never convince me that a cat isn’t a sentient being. I’ve known ones that can engage in complex behavior like playing fetch or snubbing us. Crows are sentient; they can learn. Elephants are definitely sentient; they can grieve. I don’t know about fish and insects, though. I haven’t decided about them. But I digress yet again.)

But cereal isn’t even alive, much less capable of movement, thoughts, and emotions. It’s inert, not capable of higher functioning. Or any functioning at all, really.

We see these atrocities everywhere. Even some of the streaming services I pay for have ads these days. We don’t want to pay extra for the no-ads variety. They cost enough as is. But the cost to me is hearing Dan shout at the TV, complain about sexism, and argue with me about supposedly sentient cereal. It’s part of what I pay for.

It’s a Bargain!

Christmas, etc., family, funny things, holidays, humor, , , ,

It was the gorilla mask that did it. Sure, it was after Halloween and, sure, I’m sure he got it for a very good price. But I ask myself, as my husband obviously didn’t, Why do we need a gorilla mask?

The easy answer is, we don’t. We don’t go to Halloween parties and don’t even dress up to hand out Halloween candy. Dan has breathing problems and can’t wear a full face mask for more than a minute. I have no desire to wear a gorilla mask at all (or to hand out candy either, a chore I leave to Dan every year).

The thing is, Dan works at a big box store and is in proximity to lots of things that are on sale. And he can almost never resist. (He also has a problem resisting free things, like stuff that neighbors set out at the end of their driveways. I’ve trained him to pass them by. But he expects praise for doing so. But I digress.)

There are pet supplies (in addition to the absolutely necessary gushy food for Toby). We have three cat trees, one of which sees use as a side table facing the TV. Toby only uses one level of the big one and ignores the third. He also ignores the catnip mice (though not the catnip treats). And who wouldn’t ignore the dog toy shaped like a giant t-bone steak that Dan thought Toby might use as a pillow? (Toby. Toby did. Dan did buy a nice cat bed that Toby uses a lot, so he gets points for that.)

Some of his finds are more like presents. When a sweater or tunic in my size goes on sale, he’ll snap it up and bring it home like it’s some kind of hunting trophy. (I don’t think he ties it to the hood of his car, though.) They don’t always fit, of course, and he says he’ll take them back if they don’t, but he never does. I need a separate section in my closet for them.

He’s also fond of clearance china. He brings home large soup mugs with appropriate sayings on them, like “Official Cat Mom” or “Looney Tunes” or less appropriate ones like “Merry Christmoose.” He also likes platters and sandwich plates that don’t always go well with our china pattern. Sometimes they’re at least in the ballpark, or completely neutral white. (Yes, surprisingly, we do actually have a pattern—Pfaltzgraff Yorktowne. I chose the paint for our newly rebuilt kitchen—blue—to harmonize with it. This is something I never thought I’d ever do (have a pattern), though I never thought I’d ever get married either. Life is surprising. But I digress again.)

The bargain food tables are also irresistible. Not that he always knows what he’s getting. We’ve ended up with spices like togarashi and galangal (which I always thought were martial arts), plus pickled banana leaves. Our cooking repertoire runs to things like grilled chicken breasts and ground beef, seasoned with Mrs. Dash, garlic, and oregano. He also buys bargains that really aren’t. Olive tapenade in EVOO isn’t cheap, even at half price. We still have lots of odd culinary experiments just a-waiting for us to be brave or tipsy enough to try.

I can’t really complain, though. Last night he brought me Graeter’s black raspberry and chocolate chip ice cream, which was on sale for some unknown reason. It’s good to have someone watching out for me. I don’t even have to share (much) with him, since it’s not sugar-free. (My theory is he’s trying to keep me fat so other men don’t hit on me. My last digression for this week. I swear.)

Lest you think this all goes one way, I buy weird stuff for Dan, too, though I’m pretty much limited to shopping on the internet. One of my recent finds was a Mr. Natural Keep on Truckin’ t-shirt. I’ve also gotten him a Funko Pop Jerry Garcia. (Can you tell what era he grew up in?) We hardly ever save these surprises for Christmas. Instead, we give ourselves a treat. This year, we’re getting matching tattoos—one gift that I hope isn’t a slight irregular!