Nermal

The world's cutest kitten and probably what I should have named Squib.

I loved Garfield as a kid, but especially Nermal--Garfield's arch enemy somewhat--because he was just a little...off. Different drummer. That small, grey tabby who was so small and cute and KNEW IT. I had no idea of the power of the cuteness, though. It's rid.ic.u.lous.

In this scenario, Beanstalk would totally and completely be Garfield. The older, preceding, more knowledgeable cat who knows you aren't going to get by on sheer cuteness forever. The one with that look on his face. You know the one...

"You are full of s*** and I am soooo going to devote my life to mailing you to Abu Dhabi."

Why, exactly does Nermal get away with all his redonkulousness? Because he's cute and fluffy. That's why. So is Squib. I never really believed in the phenomenon before, but it's true. He'll do a naked handstand in the grocery aisle and when you catch him he'll simply furl out both of his wide, green eyes, smile that Gerber Baby smile he still has, tuck his widdle paws under his chin and blink a few times and wait expectantly for you to pat him on the head. You can fight it all you want to, but unless you are a heartless wench (myself) or a ten-yr-old who has been around the block more times than most senior citizens (Beanstalk) you are hopelessly lost and you will do it.

He will suck you in with his tractor beams of soft, kiddly, wonderfulness and you will be useless for escaping his gravitational pull ever again. A good test of exactly how far into this kid you are is your ability to tell him 'no.'

If it's just 'n..' 'nuh..' 'nuuuu..' *pant* *pant* *pant* ....well, then, it's all over with.

Baba? Gone.
Buddy? Toast.
The list haveth no end.

Don't get me wrong. Beanstalk is cute. Not fluffly, but stinking cute. He loves music. He sings. He just has more going on behind the eyes, my sarcasm, and a healthy BS detector. After all, you can really only tell a child "small pinch" so many times before he invents an entire language on his own with which to curse at you. (not kidding, we call it Klingon). But if the two of them are sitting next to each other, Squib will exclaim with clear, excited, shiny happy people joy something like: "Look! Fairies!" And Beanstalk's head will swing around to look at him with a look somewhere between shock and hilarity that clearly says: "WTH, already? Fairies?"

And theeeeeeennnnnn, Ner-er-Squib told us that our loud music was bad for our ears. That we needed to keep our volume on soft.

Erm.

You can't take that back.

Evar.

We are now mailing him to the South Pole.
Scat

Hay!

Fever.

Yes, it's that time again. When you'd sell your soul to the devil for a bottle of Afrin, toss the idea of sexy to schlep a box of Kleenex everywhere you go, and alter your natural look to include large circles under your eyes.

It's actually been that time for a bit, but right about now all of our abused sinuses have decided to get off this banana boat, pull down the shutters, and completely wall up every opening with an unholy wall of snot. And if you're me (and I am) your ears have followed suit. Now, if you live in a city, I'm going to begin by offending you and saying I have just a wee, tiny, but sometimes bigger than a breadbox bit smaller amount of sympathy for you.

Right now the breadbox could hold about three or four loaves.

I realize you have pollen. I realize you have grass. Mold. Air currents distribute the...yeah. Etc. But I'm here to tell you that there is a haze of large chunks of chopped up plant matter floating around in the air up here and you can't throw a rock without hitting a tractor that's on it's way to stir up a whole lot more of it. Come to think of it, you can barely drive a car without hitting a tractor the last two days. I don't know what's up with that, but I suppose it's one of those strange things like the day you show up at the grocer wearing your Dad's jeans and t-shirt and the whole church is there (saving that one).

I should be glad about this whole tractor-hay nonsense. Texas makes over a billion dollars a year selling hay and then subsequently has twice as many cattle as the next largest farmer of cattle. And I am. I'd be gladder (gladder?...yes...gladder...I've decided not to be more glad about it) if they were, say, my 13 billion head of cattle.

[Everything you never wanted to know about hay is here. I thought it was kinda cool.]

So the slightly emo-lookin' sniffly chick that has been dragging her boots in and out of my house with that pink Kleenex box is not our fantabulous new chef/babysitter. Dammit.

It's just me.
Scat

Back on the Sofa Again

That's right. The abominable-formerly-yellow-fifties-era-Jackie-O-sofa-from-hell is my bed yet again. You should be glad, really. I've hardly been writing a thing. Here, anyway. I've been writing scads of useless crapola elsewhere, but this blog was truly spawned out of the utter sleeplessness that is this "bed" of mine.

Why, you ask, am I here again and not out in my queen size bed?

Cancer.

Well, I guess I should say more cancer. As many/most of you know we lost Papa Scat to it last year and now Baba Scat is dealing with her fourth cancer. Yes, I said FOUR. And I can officially say cancer sucks. Mostly for her, though. After a really, really bad night with some Cytoxan during which she tried to call for help and the Deaf Person (Buddy Scat) couldn't hear her (ok, none of the deaf persons could hear her), it was decided that the only person on the property with ears should be stationed in the house where she could hear Baba if she got sick or fell or called out in the night. Or something.

So here I am. At 4.30 am. Wide flipping awake.

And absolutely nothing has happened since. Well, some untoward behavior on the part of the Cytoxan but no screaming or falling or anything.

Except maybe when Squib tried to use the towel bar last night to climb over the toilet stall door (yes, he is a ninja) to hit Buddy on the head (this is Buddy's explanation too and they seemed to think it was perfectly normal) and not only did the towel bar break, but the stall door came off and hit the floor along with at least one human body. Maybe two. They are being very vague about the whole thing and just passed me the stall door through the bathroom door and kept on about their business never mind the fact that I did almost have a stroke and ran back there like I was going to have to either resuscitate my dad or witness Squib's first compound femur fracture (that seems to be the limit at which my children realize the wrestling is 'over.') But they won't say anything about how it started. Thirty-three years ago I'd have been shot, drawn, and quartered for breaking a door off it's hinges, but nooooooo. It's like a pact of silence. It was supposed to be a convenient way to get Squib clean by throwing him in the shower with Dad because goodness knows he's not quite got that shower thing down yet.

And we still don't have a tub. Off topic.

It's ok. Don't mind me. You just put me here to listen for things to go thud. And then...well...come on guys, I hear EVERYTHING. And when human bodies hit the floor, I run. There was screaming, falling, and a giant thud. So I call foul!

Anyway, snoring? Increased by a factor of at least five. Random scale there. That clock on the mantel? Will not be ticking anymore after I get finished with it today. Trips to the bathroom? Well, they may just as well sleep there. Trips to the refrigerator? Don't. Get. Me. Started. I think they're using it to light the kitchen. I'm definitely considering unscrewing the light bulbs in that damn thing before the day is over.

But the truth is, I wouldn't have it any other way. This ridiculousness is the stuff of legend around here. The thing we remember when we make it through whatever we're struggling with. And we promised Papa that we'd take care of Baba, so if that means I have to sit in her room 24-7, then that's what I'm going to do. And, yes, it sounds like I'm complaining, but really...I'm taking note of the absolute, total, and complete insanity that is any modern family.

If they're doing it right.
Scat