Hi all.
Okay, officially I'm not venting about the fact that I've been a single mom for most of June.
But really I am.
It seems that every year I forget how much overtime Mr. C puts in (unpaid- YAY teachers!) at the end of the year. Between award ceremonies and graduations and senior parties and end of the year meetings, Mr. C was not home much for the last two- three weeks of school. And then right after school let out, he took the three older kids camping, which left me home with Roo for a week. Then he came home for a day, repacked, and went to Missouri with his student for a Skills USA National Competition, while I stayed with all 4 kids. Then he came home for a day, repacked, and is now currently in Anaheim at a Creativity Conference where he is spending the night at the Paradise Pier Hotel and going behind the scenes at the park with the Disney Imagineers.
Through all this I've had a devil and an angel on my shoulder and their conversation goes like this:
Angel: What a lucky wife you are to have such a talented husband who has such passion for his job! See how his students are succeeding? Doesn't it feel good to know that he plays a huge part in that?
Devil: Yeah, yeah, yeah. And what are you? Chopped liver? How come he gets all the pats on the back with everyone telling him how great he is and how proud they are of him while you're running yourself ragged keeping four kids entertained? Plus, have you even thought about the fact that he's gotten to have a nice comfortable hotel bed all to himself for the last 9 days?
Angel: Oh. pish posh! It's your job, silly, to take care of the kids! It's what you signed up for! What do you want? A badge? A parade?
Devil: Yes! A parade! A parade is not an unreasonable request! Someone should very well throw a parade for all that you've been managing! And while they're at it, you should get a badge too! If the Girl Scouts get a badge for babysitting, then you get a badge for running the show solo for weeks on end!
Angel: Tsk tsk! Nobody likes a whiner.
Devil: Oh, whine, wine. Get a straw and suck it up, sister.
To tell you the truth, I'm not partial to either one of those guys. In fact, I don't think I like either of them because neither one makes me feel better. One of them invalidates all of my true feelings, while the other one just spews more negativity.
I hate negativity.
I hate complaining.
I hate feeling like what I do isn't important.
I hate being jealous of my husband.
I hate the feeling of needing recognition.
I hate stupid, fluffy, soft, comfortable hotel beds.
I hate that the word 'hate' is in this post 7 times.
Not that I'm venting or anything.
You all have a good night! And don't worry- next time I talk to you Mr. C will be home and I'll be a nice, new, shiny happy version of myself again.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
It's A Cooking Post, Yay!
Here's some shocking news for all of you: me and Mr. C, we be poor. I mean, we're rich in a lot of other things, but in the bank account- not so much... which actually doesn't make us very different from many other people nowadays. I think I've written before that someday I look forward to a time when we don't have to choose monthly between getting our car serviced or going on a date night. Or buying the kids shoes and having a date night. Or feeding the animals and having a date night. You get the idea? For right now, that's how it is and we've found a way to make it okay. We just have date nights in. Yes, some people have staycations, me and Mr. C have stayte night.
Just kidding. We don't really call it that. That'd be terrible.
We don't call it anything but "give the kids chicken nuggets for dinner, put them to bed, make some really yummy food for ourselves and then watch Netflix on the couch" night. It works for us.
Since it's been a while since I've done a cooking post, and since Mr. C was hanging around the kitchen anyway while I cooked, I asked him to take some pictures for the blog. It was a little bumpy at first, because I had a preconceived vision for this post of which I had to try to relate to him while he just seemed mostly interested in taking pictures of the champagne bottle. But in the end it worked out okay.
Still not sure what he was trying to capture with all that.
So let's get started, shall we? This is a recipe for Pasta Carbonara. It's another Rachael Ray, the last recipe in her first cookbook, Cooking Round the Clock. She titled it "The Only Recipe You'll Ever Need". I'd like to amend that and call it "The Only Recipe You'll Ever Need If You're Planning on Clogging Your Arteries and Having a Heart Attack Before Middle Age". However, fattening as this recipe may be, it is deliriously delicious and perfect for a late night meal with your sweetie.
Here's the ingredients:
That's 1 package of rigatoni
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
5-6 chopped garlic cloves
1/4 pound pancetta (chopped)
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
1/2 cup dry white wine (I used bubbly which was a little too dry, but whatev.)
2 large egg yolks
1 cup of Parmesan Romano Cheese
(Also, I do realize that the alignment above is a disaster, but after spending an hour messing around with the format in HTML form, I no longer care.)
(Actually, I do care, but only enough to let you know that I am aware of the problem. I don't care enough to spend any more time on trying to fix it.)
(And now I think I might have cared too much, because now I have three aside thoughts in a row explaining exactly how much I do and don't care.)
Anyway.
First things first: get a nice, big pot of salted water to boil.
Can I just stop for a moment to say that I think I'm going to permanently hire Mr. C to take pictures for any future cooking posts? I don't think I could have ever made boiling water look that cool with my little point and shoot camera.
Add the rigatoni and cook it for 8 minutes.
Okay. Now, in that 8 minutes, you have to cook everything up in your skillet fast so that it's ready to add to the hot pasta. So go! Go! There's no time to waste!
(Unless you're messing around with Rigatoni binoculars. Then it's okay to waste a little time.)
Heat up the olive oil in a large skillet and add then add the pancetta. Brown it for about 2 minutes.
Then add the garlic and the red pepper flakes.
Cook 2 or 3 minutes longer, then add the wine (or champagne) and stir it up with all the pan juices.
Mmmmmmm-mm-mm. Wish he had taken a better picture of that, because this one doesn't do much to help you understand how delicious the smell of the garlic cooking up in that wine sauce was. It was mouth watering.
So if you can tear your nose away from the skillet, take some time to look at the noodles. By now they should be pretty much done and you'll want to stir in your skillet stuff while the noodles are nice and piping hot. So listen up!
Take those eggs and separate them. Do whatever you want with the egg whites, but please PLEASE don't hurt the egg yolks.
(By the way, my egg separating skills are courtesy of Mrs. Rogers, my Jr. High home ec teacher, whom I wrote about here. Turns out I got more from her after all than just horror stories involving digestive juices inside of pudding.)
Dump those yolks into a bowl or measuring cup and beat 'em up real good. Then, before you drain the noodles, take about a 1/2 cup of the pasta cooking water and add it into your eggs. Then go ahead and lightly stir that together.
This is called "tempering the eggs". It keeps them from scrambling and ruining all your hard work.
Okay, now you can drain the pasta.
(I know you don't really need to see a picture of that, but again, I'm just really impressed with Mr. C's action shots. Look at that steam! I had to include. Sorry.)
Allrighty. Now is where you've got to MOVE. Take the drained noodles and dump them into the saucepan over the pancetta and garlic sauce. Then you pour the eggs over the noodles, and start mixing it all up like crazy. Make sure you toss that sauce over each and every noodle!
Then toss a handful (or two... or three.... oink) of the cheese and mix it in there real good, too.
Get it all melty-like, salt and pepper it, and then put some extra cheese on top right before you serve it.
Now, Rachael Ray writes that it's sexy to just eat it out of the saucepan with two forks. Go ahead and do that if you want. I wouldn't judge you. But Mr. C and I rarely get to eat like civilized folk, what with a table full of kids and all, so we set out plates all fancy like.
Then we enjoyed a quiet meal, in which no one interrupted us to complain about the food, or spill their beverage, or ask us how much more they had to eat before they could be done.
See? Just like date night, except cheap, fast, and easy. And yes, I realize I could take that last statement so many places, but since I've already slathered this post up with huge amounts of my dorkiness, I'll just go ahead and let it be.
You're very welcome.
Hope you all have a great day!
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Men In Mommyworld
As I've written before (like here), sometimes things happen in my world that are unrelated, yet they share a common theme. I always refer to it as the Universe talking to me. It happens a lot. Seriously. Kinda freaks me out. Most of the time though, I like it because it feels a little....... magical? Beautiful? It's like that plastic bag blowing in the wind from the movie American Beauty. It's simple- these random little occurrences- and it's beautiful because from each one a thought is pulled and weaved together to create a truth.
(Actually, I'm not quite sure how that's like the bag blowing around in American Beauty, but the truth is that my explanation of this got a little artsy-fartsy and the blowing bag is where my brain defaults to when it comes to symbolism. Apologies.)
So, it started yesterday when I was in the mall parking lot with Roo. She was in the stroller and we were walking to the car. When we got close, some guy who'd been circling the parking lot, decided to follow us the rest of the way and wait for our spot. (By the way, I hate it when people do this because then I always feel like I have to rush- which I usually do as a courtesy to them because I'm polite that way- but I've always hated the imposition.) Anyway, I took Roo out of the stroller and put her into the carseat, deciding that I'd buckle her after I loaded the stroller. See? I was trying to be all streamlined and fast for this guy which turned out to be all for nought, because when I went back to collapse the stroller I heard him yell "Oh, come ON!"
What in the world did he think I was going to do with the stroller? Leave it there? Pick it up and shove it into my bag like Mary Poppins?
I thought maybe, perhaps he was listening to some sports on his radio and his team had just made a bad play because I couldn't see how I had done anything that warrented being yelled at. I was moving fast, wasn't I? Trying to get him into this spot as fast as I could, right?
So ignoring eye contact, I lifted the stroller into the trunk, shut it, and went back to Roo so I could buckle her. And that's when I heard him say, "Are you kidding me?".
Then he pounded his steering wheel like a big fat two year old baby.
Let me leave this story for a minute and tell you where I was mentally before all this happened.
Earlier in the week, my whole family had gotten together and celebrated my grandparents 65th wedding anniversary. 65th. 65th. That's six full decades and half of another one. I don't know about you guys, but my brain can't wrap itself around that number when it's in reference to spending it with your spouse.
(Mr. C and I joke that we're going to have to retire to two different spots of the country- him to a hacienda somewhere in New Mexico where he can hike and photograph to his heart's content, and me to my country dream home with a wrap around porch, where I will lounge and read and sip ice tea for the rest of my days.)
Anyway- back to my grandparents. To look at them now, they are an excellent model for love and marriage. However, I know from talking to both of them, that they had their share of rough times. My grandma was telling me the other day how my grandfather, being like most men in 1950's America, was completely clueless to how hard she worked in the home. He never once changed a diaper, helped with housework, or prepared a meal. When she asked for help his standard response was "Look, I work all day. I'm exhausted. You're here all day. You can sit down anytime you want and take a nap."
Let's take a moment to gasp collectively.
Him being my beloved grandpa, I can easily forgive him. That's just how it was in the 50's. Besides, a Cesarean section and subsequent 10 day hospital stay for my grammy taught my grandpa the error of his thinking. (My dad loves to tell the story of how my grandpa, during his disastrous week home with his kids, tried to serve a roasted chicken that was burnt on the outside and still frozen in the middle.) But my grammy, though she has long since forgiven him, still gets worked up when she's telling me about that time in her life- and it's 50 years later. That's some powerful anger there.
Coincidentally (or not), my friend posted this article here up on Facebook written by a father, calling out the clueless dads. It's a good article and I hope you all click over and read it. I'm happy to say that most of the dad's I know are completely in the game; diapers, dishes and all. However, there are a few fathers I know of who'd I love to pin down and force-read the article to. I have fantasies of going all Jillian Michaels on them and yelling "You're a loser! You think you're a man? You're not a man!" into their faces. Aggressive, yes, but I get so sick of seeing their wives tired and beaten down from doing it all themselves.
So, I guess this past week ignornace about children and child rearing was in the forefront of my mind- how it was in the 50's and how we've progressed but there's still people out there who are living in an Ozzie and Harriet nightmare.
So there I was sitting there in the mall with Roo, just prior to the tattooed bald man baby throwing a temper tantrum in his car, sipping on my Starbucks and watching Roo play in the play area. A group of mommies were there for a playdate and I found myself observing them: the sippy cups, the snack baggies, the conversations about nursing, the kid/mommy language ("Hands aren't for hitting, sweetie!") I was suddenly overcome by this rush of UGH. I don't know why it happened- on any day any of those ladies and I are easily interchangeable- but in that moment the sheer momminess of mommyworld just completely got under my skin. I packed up Roo and left.
Then I got accosted by the big bald man baby in the parking lot.
As I was driving home, I felt so worn down by stupidity. Not just the man baby- I mean, yes, he was totally stupid, but it was more than that. It was that mommyworld had totally gotten to me, not the first time that had happened, but it was the first time that I realized that the stupid part of parenting- the day in day out silly details of it- is probably is the only thing that the clueless people see. And I suddenly understood how all this stuff was connected for me:
The daily ins and outs of parenting- I understand that it must look silly on the outside. The bulging diaper bags, the silly songs and rhymes we sing to entertain the kids, the runny noses.... I could go on forever. It looks like a bunch of mundane boring stuff that doesn't have a lot of value in it. (Which is probably why a grown man found it socially acceptable to be impatient with a mother in a parking lot.) The truth is though, that this stuff is so completely invaluable because it all adds up to time spent with your children. How sad that there are people who don't get that. How sad that there are fathers who don't get that.
So that's what this has turned into. A Father's Day post. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there who get it and see the big picture- the ones who aren't afraid of being silly and changing diapers and spending time with their kids. You are priceless.
To Mr. C- yes, you're an amazing father BUT perhaps today what I appreciate most about you is that when I need it, you are my superhero rescue from mommyworld. When I need to NOT feel like a part of that world, you are the person in the universe I turn to who is best at making me feel like the 'me' I was before kids.
And a Happy Father's Day to my own father, who made me smile by writing this under my facebook vent about mall guy, (and I quote) "Tacy, if I had been there, that guy would've been tooting his horn through his back pockets."
Thanks for having my back, dad. Love you.
(Actually, I'm not quite sure how that's like the bag blowing around in American Beauty, but the truth is that my explanation of this got a little artsy-fartsy and the blowing bag is where my brain defaults to when it comes to symbolism. Apologies.)
So, it started yesterday when I was in the mall parking lot with Roo. She was in the stroller and we were walking to the car. When we got close, some guy who'd been circling the parking lot, decided to follow us the rest of the way and wait for our spot. (By the way, I hate it when people do this because then I always feel like I have to rush- which I usually do as a courtesy to them because I'm polite that way- but I've always hated the imposition.) Anyway, I took Roo out of the stroller and put her into the carseat, deciding that I'd buckle her after I loaded the stroller. See? I was trying to be all streamlined and fast for this guy which turned out to be all for nought, because when I went back to collapse the stroller I heard him yell "Oh, come ON!"
What in the world did he think I was going to do with the stroller? Leave it there? Pick it up and shove it into my bag like Mary Poppins?
I thought maybe, perhaps he was listening to some sports on his radio and his team had just made a bad play because I couldn't see how I had done anything that warrented being yelled at. I was moving fast, wasn't I? Trying to get him into this spot as fast as I could, right?
So ignoring eye contact, I lifted the stroller into the trunk, shut it, and went back to Roo so I could buckle her. And that's when I heard him say, "Are you kidding me?".
Then he pounded his steering wheel like a big fat two year old baby.
Let me leave this story for a minute and tell you where I was mentally before all this happened.
Earlier in the week, my whole family had gotten together and celebrated my grandparents 65th wedding anniversary. 65th. 65th. That's six full decades and half of another one. I don't know about you guys, but my brain can't wrap itself around that number when it's in reference to spending it with your spouse.
(Mr. C and I joke that we're going to have to retire to two different spots of the country- him to a hacienda somewhere in New Mexico where he can hike and photograph to his heart's content, and me to my country dream home with a wrap around porch, where I will lounge and read and sip ice tea for the rest of my days.)
Anyway- back to my grandparents. To look at them now, they are an excellent model for love and marriage. However, I know from talking to both of them, that they had their share of rough times. My grandma was telling me the other day how my grandfather, being like most men in 1950's America, was completely clueless to how hard she worked in the home. He never once changed a diaper, helped with housework, or prepared a meal. When she asked for help his standard response was "Look, I work all day. I'm exhausted. You're here all day. You can sit down anytime you want and take a nap."
Let's take a moment to gasp collectively.
Him being my beloved grandpa, I can easily forgive him. That's just how it was in the 50's. Besides, a Cesarean section and subsequent 10 day hospital stay for my grammy taught my grandpa the error of his thinking. (My dad loves to tell the story of how my grandpa, during his disastrous week home with his kids, tried to serve a roasted chicken that was burnt on the outside and still frozen in the middle.) But my grammy, though she has long since forgiven him, still gets worked up when she's telling me about that time in her life- and it's 50 years later. That's some powerful anger there.
Coincidentally (or not), my friend posted this article here up on Facebook written by a father, calling out the clueless dads. It's a good article and I hope you all click over and read it. I'm happy to say that most of the dad's I know are completely in the game; diapers, dishes and all. However, there are a few fathers I know of who'd I love to pin down and force-read the article to. I have fantasies of going all Jillian Michaels on them and yelling "You're a loser! You think you're a man? You're not a man!" into their faces. Aggressive, yes, but I get so sick of seeing their wives tired and beaten down from doing it all themselves.
So, I guess this past week ignornace about children and child rearing was in the forefront of my mind- how it was in the 50's and how we've progressed but there's still people out there who are living in an Ozzie and Harriet nightmare.
So there I was sitting there in the mall with Roo, just prior to the tattooed bald man baby throwing a temper tantrum in his car, sipping on my Starbucks and watching Roo play in the play area. A group of mommies were there for a playdate and I found myself observing them: the sippy cups, the snack baggies, the conversations about nursing, the kid/mommy language ("Hands aren't for hitting, sweetie!") I was suddenly overcome by this rush of UGH. I don't know why it happened- on any day any of those ladies and I are easily interchangeable- but in that moment the sheer momminess of mommyworld just completely got under my skin. I packed up Roo and left.
Then I got accosted by the big bald man baby in the parking lot.
As I was driving home, I felt so worn down by stupidity. Not just the man baby- I mean, yes, he was totally stupid, but it was more than that. It was that mommyworld had totally gotten to me, not the first time that had happened, but it was the first time that I realized that the stupid part of parenting- the day in day out silly details of it- is probably is the only thing that the clueless people see. And I suddenly understood how all this stuff was connected for me:
The daily ins and outs of parenting- I understand that it must look silly on the outside. The bulging diaper bags, the silly songs and rhymes we sing to entertain the kids, the runny noses.... I could go on forever. It looks like a bunch of mundane boring stuff that doesn't have a lot of value in it. (Which is probably why a grown man found it socially acceptable to be impatient with a mother in a parking lot.) The truth is though, that this stuff is so completely invaluable because it all adds up to time spent with your children. How sad that there are people who don't get that. How sad that there are fathers who don't get that.
So that's what this has turned into. A Father's Day post. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there who get it and see the big picture- the ones who aren't afraid of being silly and changing diapers and spending time with their kids. You are priceless.
To Mr. C- yes, you're an amazing father BUT perhaps today what I appreciate most about you is that when I need it, you are my superhero rescue from mommyworld. When I need to NOT feel like a part of that world, you are the person in the universe I turn to who is best at making me feel like the 'me' I was before kids.
And a Happy Father's Day to my own father, who made me smile by writing this under my facebook vent about mall guy, (and I quote) "Tacy, if I had been there, that guy would've been tooting his horn through his back pockets."
Thanks for having my back, dad. Love you.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
(Not) Sleeping With The Enemy
Hey all.
It's 5:30 in the morning. Do you want to guess why I'm up? I'll give you a hint: it's not because of any children. Mr. C took off for camping yesterday morning with the oldest 3. Roo, who stayed with me, is still sleeping soundly in her bed. The house is peaceful and quiet, which may make you wonder- why am I not curled up under blankets and sleeping soundly myself?
I'll tell you why.
Because the cat has decided that 4:30 or 5 a.m is when it wants it's first of three meals of the day. And I have decided that this is it. I am going to write the post that I have held back on for so long. I am going to devote an entire post to why I detest this cat.
*disclaimer- if you are an animal lover and are prepared to tell me why I need to be more compassionate and tolerant of this animal, then you should be warned that I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm up extra early for no reason and extra cranky because of it. You don't want to mess with that, do you?
A little back story before we start: The cat was 14 years old when we brought it over here from 9's mom's house. We didn't know at the time that she has a tendency towards puking. Actually, we didn't know a lot of things. We assumed we were getting a normal cat.
This is not a normal cat. This is El Diablo Estupido.
(That is what I secretly call her).
Here is a list of my grievances towards El Diablo Estupido:
Per the vet, we have to divide her daily meal up into 3 increments if we want her to puke less. This has confused El Diablo because she now thinks that anytime I am in the kitchen, she will be receiving a meal. This means that she spends most of her day circling my kitchen island like a shark. To count, this household has lost 2 plates, 1 drinking glass, 1 pie pan, and 1 cat dish because El Diablo has gotten underfoot and tripped me in her constant greediness for food. This is not to mention the number of times that nothing has broken but I have tripped and sent food flying all over the tile.
Which reminds me, the tile. Over half of my house is covered in tile, yet, anytime El Diablo pukes, she makes sure to do it on the carpet.
She went on a starvation strike when we tried to switch her to dry food. She refused to eat it, and then I caught her up on my pantry shelf like a feral raccoon. She had torn through the plastic on a brand new loaf of bread and had devoured it. So we switched back to wet food.
That brings me back to the feeding her 3 times a day thing: you know what I want the first thing I smell to be in the morning? Coffee. You know what I'm accosted with instead? Friskies Whitefish Ocean Dinner. It smells up an entire side of the house.
And then there's my laundry room. My laundry room has been taken over by the litter box and her food and water dishes. To get to my washing machine nowadays, I have to perform acrobatic stunts of epic proportions while stepping in the sand that she kicks out of her littler box.
Finally, there's the persistent meowing at 5 a.m. No matter how many pillows I've thrown at her, how many threats I make to sell her to a ghetto restaurant, she will not shut up with the pre dawn meowing. We resorted to closing her in the laundry room every night so that we could sleep. One night we did this when my best friend was over. My best friend is a cat person. The cat started crying and my friend, (who never offers me any pity when I'm bitching about the cat) had the nerve to say "That is breaking my heart." And I wanted to say "Really? REALLY? That's breaking your heart? That? What about your friend who you've known since you were six who, between babies, pregnancies, and kitty cats, hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in almost 8 years now? WHY DOESN'T THAT BREAK YOUR HEART? WHY DOES THE DAMN CAT GET ALL YOUR PITY? Huh? HUH?"
But instead I just threw her a look and said, "Trust me. At 5 a.m. that's the safest place for her to be."
Another, more gentle friend suggested that perhaps the cat came to our household to teach me about loving difficult things. I wanted to hug her and tell her that she was sweet for that I thinking that I was going to look for lesson about love in this scenario. She didn't know me very well at the time.
As an afterthought, I just realized that I've gone through the terrible 2's with 2 children and am in the midst of them with another. I know all about loving difficult things. El Diablo and I are not on that path.
On the up side, the stupid cat did motivate me to get up and write a post on the blog that I've been neglecting lately. How are you all doing? I've missed my blog and will try to do better this summer. I already took pics for a cooking post that'll be coming up. Me and Mr. C did an at home date night and made Pasta Carbonara. It was actually better than anything I've ever tasted at a restaurant and easy to make. I'll get that up soon to share with you. For now, I guess I owe one to the cat for getting me up and writing.
Score 1 for the enemy.
You all have a good day.
It's 5:30 in the morning. Do you want to guess why I'm up? I'll give you a hint: it's not because of any children. Mr. C took off for camping yesterday morning with the oldest 3. Roo, who stayed with me, is still sleeping soundly in her bed. The house is peaceful and quiet, which may make you wonder- why am I not curled up under blankets and sleeping soundly myself?
I'll tell you why.
Because the cat has decided that 4:30 or 5 a.m is when it wants it's first of three meals of the day. And I have decided that this is it. I am going to write the post that I have held back on for so long. I am going to devote an entire post to why I detest this cat.
*disclaimer- if you are an animal lover and are prepared to tell me why I need to be more compassionate and tolerant of this animal, then you should be warned that I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm up extra early for no reason and extra cranky because of it. You don't want to mess with that, do you?
A little back story before we start: The cat was 14 years old when we brought it over here from 9's mom's house. We didn't know at the time that she has a tendency towards puking. Actually, we didn't know a lot of things. We assumed we were getting a normal cat.
This is not a normal cat. This is El Diablo Estupido.
(That is what I secretly call her).
Here is a list of my grievances towards El Diablo Estupido:
Per the vet, we have to divide her daily meal up into 3 increments if we want her to puke less. This has confused El Diablo because she now thinks that anytime I am in the kitchen, she will be receiving a meal. This means that she spends most of her day circling my kitchen island like a shark. To count, this household has lost 2 plates, 1 drinking glass, 1 pie pan, and 1 cat dish because El Diablo has gotten underfoot and tripped me in her constant greediness for food. This is not to mention the number of times that nothing has broken but I have tripped and sent food flying all over the tile.
Which reminds me, the tile. Over half of my house is covered in tile, yet, anytime El Diablo pukes, she makes sure to do it on the carpet.
She went on a starvation strike when we tried to switch her to dry food. She refused to eat it, and then I caught her up on my pantry shelf like a feral raccoon. She had torn through the plastic on a brand new loaf of bread and had devoured it. So we switched back to wet food.
That brings me back to the feeding her 3 times a day thing: you know what I want the first thing I smell to be in the morning? Coffee. You know what I'm accosted with instead? Friskies Whitefish Ocean Dinner. It smells up an entire side of the house.
And then there's my laundry room. My laundry room has been taken over by the litter box and her food and water dishes. To get to my washing machine nowadays, I have to perform acrobatic stunts of epic proportions while stepping in the sand that she kicks out of her littler box.
Finally, there's the persistent meowing at 5 a.m. No matter how many pillows I've thrown at her, how many threats I make to sell her to a ghetto restaurant, she will not shut up with the pre dawn meowing. We resorted to closing her in the laundry room every night so that we could sleep. One night we did this when my best friend was over. My best friend is a cat person. The cat started crying and my friend, (who never offers me any pity when I'm bitching about the cat) had the nerve to say "That is breaking my heart." And I wanted to say "Really? REALLY? That's breaking your heart? That? What about your friend who you've known since you were six who, between babies, pregnancies, and kitty cats, hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in almost 8 years now? WHY DOESN'T THAT BREAK YOUR HEART? WHY DOES THE DAMN CAT GET ALL YOUR PITY? Huh? HUH?"
But instead I just threw her a look and said, "Trust me. At 5 a.m. that's the safest place for her to be."
Another, more gentle friend suggested that perhaps the cat came to our household to teach me about loving difficult things. I wanted to hug her and tell her that she was sweet for that I thinking that I was going to look for lesson about love in this scenario. She didn't know me very well at the time.
As an afterthought, I just realized that I've gone through the terrible 2's with 2 children and am in the midst of them with another. I know all about loving difficult things. El Diablo and I are not on that path.
On the up side, the stupid cat did motivate me to get up and write a post on the blog that I've been neglecting lately. How are you all doing? I've missed my blog and will try to do better this summer. I already took pics for a cooking post that'll be coming up. Me and Mr. C did an at home date night and made Pasta Carbonara. It was actually better than anything I've ever tasted at a restaurant and easy to make. I'll get that up soon to share with you. For now, I guess I owe one to the cat for getting me up and writing.
Score 1 for the enemy.
You all have a good day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)