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Butters – and how I’m not going to be eaten by cats
I always assumed I’d meet my end dying unnoticed in my house, then being partially eaten by my copious amount of future cats. My body perhaps found by the Laundromat Lady when I didn’t show up on a Sunday to muse?
Turns out Butters is what I have to worry about.
I know this because last night as I was on my belly, inching across the floor – she tried to eat me.
Okay – rewind.
You might like a little back story.
(And funnily enough, that’s what it is.)
I was in my sons room saying ‘goodnight’ and asked ‘Can you crack my back without lifting me?’
Nothing worked, so I lay down on the floor and Nic stepped on me. I was stretched out and pulled myself forward on my elbows to lengthen my spine. It felt good.
So while I was down there – of course, I went into tangent mode.
‘What if I had a broken leg and had to get to the door??’
Only way to find out if I could reach the front door was to try it.
You know, like anyone laying on their childs bedroom floor would think to do. Nothing weird here.
So I’m pulling myself using only upper body strength across his carpet.
A military belly crawl, only, I wasn’t allowing myself to use my legs – they remained dead weight. (Remember, my imaginary broken leg … of course, I wasn’t factoring in the pain I’d have to contend with should I actually have a broken leg, but we work with what we have.)
I encountered tile and was unable to get a grip due to my flannel pajama bottoms and fleece sweatshirt. (*Note to self, break leg in clothing with more traction.)
I should have stopped there – experiment over. I was screwed once I hit a slippery surface.
But Nic’s in the spirit of things now and pulls me across that obstacle.
Next the kitchen.
By now – Butters has noticed me in a vulnerable position on the ground. Does she worry? Look upon me in curiosity? Go for help?
No! She attacks.
I’m scooting across the kitchen rug and intermittently having my head chewed on.
I tried playing dead – but she just kept running off and returning to gnaw on me.
“I’ve got her! Go! Go!”
Nic held her back as I inched into the living room.
Why am I still doing this?!? Because I’d come that far – that’s why.
I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going now, but it was very apparent that if I were home alone and did have to wriggle to a phone or an exit without using my legs, Butters would be the reason I wouldn’t succeed.
Experiment over.
I hadn’t quite forgiven her after I climbed into bed.
I lay there on my stomach, getting comfortable, my head turned to the right when I heard snorting and felt warmth on the back of my head.
*sigh*
Really??
I sleep on a California King sized mattress – there’s enough room for me, Butters and both sets of Charlie Buckets’ grandparents!
Yet, Butters, obviously exhausted from attacking me, was snoring less than 5 inches from the back of my head.
She has a side! This is ‘homeless dog’ that I took in that now has a side of my bed.
She doesn’t like to cuddle, so I decided it was likely she was guarding me like one of her bones.
(Oh gawd, what if my imaginary broken leg is a compound fracture?!?! She’ll try to drag my sticky-out bone off!)
Anyway, she was still tired this morning (good!) so I managed to capture evidence of her close proximity. Then I just pestered her for photos to be annoying.
She’s getting really sick of the camera.
Perhaps I need to remember to break my leg in clothes with traction and a camera around my neck … then I stand a chance.
Butters on the left, my pillow on the right.
Me being happy I was annoying the dog
American Horror Story, Christmas party and a hooker
I’m not musing from the laundromat today – AND my weekend job hasn’t been done yet. I’ll do both later today.
I had a Christmas party to attend yesterday and very little motivation to do anything other than that once I saw that ‘American Horror Story: Asylum’ was finally on Netflix!
The only kind of marathons I’ve ever, or will ever be a part of – are series on Netflix.
This is true. This is how I watched Breaking Bad, Orange is the New Black, Derek and the first season of American Horror Story: Murder House.
I was just 3 episodes shy of finishing the whole season when it was time to get ready for the party.
Speaking of Christmas parties – Sister Mary Eunice’s tree decorations really had me in the holiday mood …
Back to my horror story …
I’ve mentioned before that I’m not really that ‘girly’. I don’t like to call attention to myself – but on occasion, I do enjoy the ritual of dressing up for a ‘dressy’ event.
I had the perfect dress. It didn’t look like much on the hanger, but when I wiggled into it in the dressing room – it actually rendered me wide-eyed.
It fit as if it were tailored for me, simple little black dress with a satin bust area. It was also really comfortable.
I took a shower – did my hair – grimaced as I put more make up on than I am used to and put on ‘the dress.’
I stood in front of the mirror and wondered when my dress had shrunk. Oh, it still fit me, but the length … there was a LOT of leg that I don’t recall being there in the dressing room months ago.
I threw some shoes on and asked my date, (my son Nicholas) for his opinion.
“Do I look like a hooker??”
“A little bit.”
(Ug.)
“What if I wear my hair back?”
There was no hairstyle that was going to magically turn a really short dress into anything I was going to NOT feel awkward wearing. It was already hard enough having lashes that felt like glamorous spiders and lips the color of a candy apple.
(Or … should I say “Ravishing Red” Oh Sister Mary Eunice …)
This was the make up. And the funny thing is – I can look at this picture and it doesn’t look like too much. Not when I compare it to any photos I’ve seen in any given magazine.
But it FELT like too much! I can assure you. Which, makes me wonder about celebrities and models … how much make up do they flipping have on?!?!
Nothing seemed to feel right. I ended up wearing a skirt UNDER my dress, adding length,and a cardigan over it all.
From hooker to cat lady in two simple steps.
The party was nice – the food was great – then home to Netflix. A close friend on Facebook had the following status today: “The best part about getting all dressed up for a holiday party? Putting your sweats on afterwards.”
Yup.
I managed to get Nic hooked into American Horror Story before we left, so we both sat in the living room glued to the screen.
Until I fell asleep. Probably the weight of the mascara had just been too much for my lids …
He graciously filled me in on everything I missed from ‘Continuum’ when I woke up from my unplanned nap. (Spoiler alerts Nic! Spoiler alerts!)
Luckily, I was too tired to retain all of the information he shared. I went to bed then watched it this morning … (I also watched the last episode without him. Not sure if I’m going to lie about that and watch it again with feigned surprise, or wake him up and tell him everything that happened.)
I hate when a show is over. Much like when I finish a book. I’m not done with you! I’m invested now! I get so attached to my fictional characters.
Must say – it was a great ending though. None of that Sopranos ‘fade to black’ crap. Yes, I have an imagination, no – I don’t want to use it after investing so much time in a story YOU created.
(I never was a Sopranos watcher by the way – but I think I’m the only one, so that was the best example I could think of for you.)
So, before I spend another day in my pajamas, I shall wrap this up with some of my favorite quotes and moments from American Horror Story: Asylum – and get my arse into gear for the rest of the day.
On a serious note, one of the more disturbing scenes … Dr. Arden and the ‘Ruby Earring’ test. I was conflicted about whether I felt any compassion for him, given his past and his continuance of inflicting pain. Pure evil – but, evil yearning for purity and innocence. Why am I always looking for some ‘good’ in monsters?
Having said that – the fact that once he sees there is no purity left in Sister Mary Eunice and decides he’s still ‘with her’ … (after such an amazing speech too!) was a twist I didn’t see coming. He lost any shred of sympathy from me – and I was disgusted when he took it upon himself to burn with her.
But, lest we forget …
My snowman’s arm
I was sent on a mission. My boss wants to hand out some treats tomorrow at the realtors meeting – and asked me to get cards and handwrite 25 of the ‘thank you’ variety.
Mission accepted.
I went to our local Wal-Mart (yes, back again) with my bosses money in my pocket and headed to the card section. I also couldn’t pass up some adorable glittered, holiday stickers. Nothing spruces up an envelope like a bedazzled snowman.
Speaking of snowmen … I was headed out the garden department exit when I spied, with my little holiday eye, a stick.
Only, it was never just a ‘stick’ from the moment I laid eyes on it.
I bent down, scooped it up and held it in front of me like a precious trophy.
I couldn’t wait to get back to the office and show it off.
As I came through the main door, I held out my ‘stick’ and said to the receptionist, “Look what I found!!!”
To which she responded … “A Charlie Brown Christmas tree?”
“No. It’s a snowman’s arm!”
“Oh, okay.”
Alright – I’ll try my boss.
“Look what I found!”
He glanced up, “A stick?”
*Sigh*
“It’s a snowman’s arm!”
I took my arm and my thank you cards and stickers and disappeared into my office.
A realtor came by.
“Look what I found!” (this time I wasn’t leaving anything to the imagination) “It’s a snowman’s arm!”
“Are you sure it’s not a leg?”
“Snowmen don’t have legs! Well … except for Frosty I suppose … anyway, it’s an arm … and I’m keeping it.”
He left me finishing up my cards and wondering about snowmen legs – and also contemplating the very real possibility that I might be the only one around here that sees bears in clouds and arms in sticks. I don’t think I can be though.
Here’s the arm – you decide.
Parades, phalanges and procrastination
Thanksgiving.
It’s freezing in my house. A chilly 70 degrees. Yes, that’s cold. When you’re used to temps in the 120’s.
I can barely feel my toes. I refuse to turn the heater up – I just got the electricity bill down from the Summer. I don’t need the gas bill competing with it.
Since my son was church mousing around the house at 4 in the morning, I’m sure I won’t be seeing his bright-eyed face until it’s almost time to go to my parents house this afternoon.
So, Butters and I have been watching the Thanksgiving Day parades and pacing. Mostly I’m pacing. She’s relocated a few times.
I can never sit still.
I go from room to room – swipe my email update – check Facebook – go to another room – make a mental list of everything that needs to be done in said room, then leave it.
I’m bathed – dressed – and bored.
I’m sure there’s someone out there completely inundated with people and activity that would love to switch places with me.
They would know better what to do with boredom. Not me. I am restless!
Unmotivated and restless.
It’s a really bad combination of things to be. I could have had at least 3 projects crossed off my list right now if I had a teeny tiny bit of motivation in me this morning.
I think by typing I feel like I’m getting something accomplished – besides, it keeps my fingers from freezing.
Speaking of fingers. Yesterday I managed to staple my finger …
I happened to have two people in my office at the time – and much to their amusement I did the ‘Is it bad?? OMG, I don’t want to look … IS it bad?? Look … no, wait – don’t look’ thing. All whilst giggling.
One visitor took photos while the other said “Oh, yeah, that’s in there.” Then proceeded to leave me.
Not before announcing to my boss in the room across from us, “She stapled her finger,” to which there was no response.
I think he’s pretty used to hearing anything when it comes to a) Announcements (muttering, unprovoked fits of laughter, cursing) from my office b) Updates from other people as to what Amanda has managed to do now. He’s desensitized. Can’t blame him really.
Probably he managed an eyeroll – maybe even sighed a little.
I was laughing and wondering if the femoral artery got anywhere near the finger tip – (It could! Well … if you’re scratching your leg) then just bravely strolled to the kitchen, grabbed a bandaid from the friend that left, turned on the faucet and yanked the offending staple from my sore phalange.
It really wasn’t bad at all. Provided a little excitement on a day that was crawling by. (I swear, the clock was taking one tick forward and two ticks back!)
Much like today. Some teeny bopper is singing with Ninja Turtles on the tv. Butters is sleeping in the living room and I’m shivering at the kitchen table.
For the sake of not becoming hypothermic – I shall bid you all a Happy Thanksgiving (And Hanukkah!) and start one of my projects.
Musings from the Laundromat: ‘The day I lied about a King’ Edition
Sigh.
I had to do the walk of shame to the customer counter a little while ago.
“My washing machine stopped.” I said.
Which, while true, wasn’t the whole truth. I needed more time to work up the courage to come clean. (No pun intended.)
The laundromat lady followed me back to my little cluster of machines I was currently using – and I fessed up.
“I put a quilt in there – but it’s thin. I thought it would be okay.”
Now, it IS thin – but it’s also filled with down and King sized.
“What size is it?”
“Umm …” I played innocently with a wet corner of the comforter, as we both peered into the water filled, unmoving interior. “I’m not sure.”
LIAR!
My inner honest-self was scowling at me. Fiercely.
Luckily, a simple twist of a key in a secret compartment started the machine up again.
I returned to my spot at the Umbrella table and let the shame wash over me. (Again, no pun intended.)
Karma is a bitch sometimes.
The reason I was washing my down comforter, is because it’s been a little chilly at night. I had stored it in one of those plastic bags that you vacuum the air out of.
A year of sitting in plastic DEFINITELY left its mark. I unzipped the bag and it smelled like a melted baby doll factory! Only worse. A melted unhygienic baby doll factory.
So disgusting.
I paid extra for fabric softener – used Oxygenated detergent … pulled that thing out of the washing machine (while feathers attacked me) and could STILL smell ‘that’ smell.
I bought two very over-priced fabric softener sheets and trotted over to the next contraption. “THE EXTRACTOR”
This was recommended to me by the laundromat lady. Because, and I quote, “You’ve got to get those things really dry, otherwise the feathers will smell.”
I was thinking it couldn’t possibly smell worse, but I wasn’t going to take my chances. Melted unhygienic doll baby factory with a hint of wet dead bird isn’t my idea of what something with the word ‘comfort’ in it should smell like.
It didn’t help to see this little picture on the machine – only adding to the macabre images in my head.
This thing was going to twist my arm off.
Because I lied.
Okay, it didn’t twist my arm off – but when I did find the courage to reach into “THE EXTRACTOR” I was again attacked by feathers and ‘the smell’.
I then put the offending quilt in a ‘special’ recommended dryer. I felt so guilty about lying to the laundromat lady, that I dutifully used it and paid extra for the damn thing.
It was specially designed for comforters – and cost more than the regular ones. For three times the price, it offered more space, hotter air and the use of 4 tennis balls “So it doesn’t bunch up” the laundromat lady explained.
Add to the mix two over priced dryer sheets and a prayer.
I sat, displaced from even the rainbow umbrella table – like an exiled criminal, in the front corner of the building. Serves me right for lying.
When the machine finally stopped, I opened the door and reached in … sniffed a little. Not bad. But could be better.
It’s now currently outside hanging off of the porch – having been sprayed with ‘Sleep Serenity’ bedding refresher.
I then noticed the tag –
Sigh.
Debauchery Soup 