Things my husband has recently done to make me laugh.
(That is, he didn’t do them with the intention of making me laugh, but they did.)
1. We were watching. Um. What the fuck was the name of that movie? Oh, right – Extract. We were watching Extract, and there comes a point when the guy who’s causing a kerfuffle at the extract company is sitting in his living room with his uncle or cousin or someone. They’re watching TV and Uncle Cousin is drinking directly out of a 2-liter Pepsi bottle. I think this is to show you just how white trash they are, that they can’t be bothered to drink out of cups, just carry the 2-liter bottle to the living room and guzzle it down while watching trashy TV.
“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “Sometimes Fred drinks directly out of 2-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi.” I considered this for a moment, and then turned to look at Fred, sitting across the room on his couch.
Drinking out of a mostly-empty 2-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi.
Oh, if I’d only had my camera.
(He would like you to know, I’m sure, that he only does that when there’s just a little left in the bottle and he doesn’t want to dirty another cup.)
PS: My opinion on Extract: Meh. Skip it and rent Office Space.
2. We give the cats their Snackin’! Time! every evening when it’s starting to get dark – these days around 4:30, 4:45. This means that if we go anywhere near the kitchen after about 3:00, the kittens excitedly decide it’s Snackin’! Time! and gather in the kitchen. Sugarbutt gets his Snackin’! Time! on the counter near the sink (I SCRUB THE COUNTER AFTER SNACKIN’! TIME! IS OVER, DON’T JUDGE ME.), and so if he decides it’s that time, he jumps up on the counter and rubs against whoever’s standing there.
On Friday, Fred and I were both in the kitchen doing something not Snackin’! Time! related, I don’t recall what, and Sugarbutt was all purrpurrpurr ohmygodiloveyouwhenyougivemefood purrpurrpurr and he was in Fred’s way, and out of frustration, Fred said “Would you GET your motherfuckers out of the way!” and I was instantly unreasonably irate* because I assumed he was talking to me, and my “motherfuckers” were the cats, and I was all “HEY! I didn’t call them in here!” and then I realized he wasn’t talking to me, he was talking to Sugarbutt.
I’m guessing that the “your motherfuckers” were Sugarbutt’s legs and he was requesting that Sugarbutt move them.
Even just typing this now, I am GUFFAWING. Sometimes things just hit your funnybone, you know?
*”Instantly unreasonably irate” should be my tagline.
3. Saturday morning when I got home from the adoption center, Fred had already left to attend a wake. I walked into the kitchen to put a pot of water on to boil (with it being so cold, the chickens’ waterers tend to freeze, requiring that we go out regularly and kick them to break the ice. Friday, I decided that it would be smarter to add hot water to the waterers to melt the ice and keep new ice from forming too quickly. It works like a charm. By next winter we should have electricity run out to the back forty so that the waterers will have electric heaters to prevent the water from icing over), and I hit a slick spot on the floor and slid a bit. I turned to see what the hell I’d slipped on, and couldn’t see anything. After I put the pot of water on to boil, I walked to the other end of the counter, and slid on another slick spot. I did a general “What the fuck?”, still didn’t see anything, and then forgot about it.
Later, after he got home, Fred walked into the kitchen and slid on the first slick spot.
“I slid on that earlier, too,” I said. “I don’t see anything, but maybe I dropped a little bit of oil or something.”
Fred laughed and confessed that when he was getting ready for the wake, he saw that his shoes were all dusty, and so he brought them into the kitchen and sprayed PLEDGE on them, and he didn’t think about holding the shoes over the sink or trash can, just held ’em out over the floor and sprayed ’em with Pledge. Some got on the floor, and voila – slick spots.
Yesterday morning he skated across the slick spot on one foot, looking much like Gumby.
“I wiped at it really well with my sock this morning,” he said earnestly. “I can’t believe it’s still so slick!”
I looked at him.
“I mean, I wiped a LOT!”
“You wiped your sock back and forth against the slick spot,” I said. “And you expected that this would take care of the slick spot and make it not slick.”
“Right.”
“All you did was POLISH the floor,” I told him. “To make it unslick you need to spray cleaner on it and wipe THAT.”
“Oh.”
This morning? Floor still slick.
4. This isn’t recent, in fact it’s been ongoing for yeaaaaaaars, but it always makes me roll my eyes at him. Several years ago, we were sitting down to dinner. Fred had made dinner, and it included baked potatoes. As I began eating dinner, I noticed that my potato smelled pretty dirty.
“Did you wash the potatoes?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said.
“With the scrubby?” I said.
“Well, no. I ran water over it and rubbed it with my hand.” He held up his hand to demonstrate, as though I might not be quite sure what a “hand” was.
“You ran water over it and rubbed it with your hand,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I did not eat the rest of that potato.
Since then, I’ll occasionally asked him if he washed a dish with soap and water, or just his “magic hands.”
We watched Paranormal Activity Friday night, and about ten or fifteen minutes into the movie, when the main characters had been dealing with noises in the night and the very annoying female lead was all “Why the fuck are my keys on the floor?!”, I turned to Fred and said “I know what the problem is. Obviously they have CATS.”
If every thump and shriek in the middle of the night woke me up or freaked me out, I’d get VERY LITTLE FUCKING SLEEP, believe you me. Especially when Maxi’s inside for the night. She was inside one night last week and I was laying in the living room reading, and she came hauling ass down the hallway, snarling and snorting like a Tasmanian devil. Cookies spilled out of the hallway into the living room like a tiny school of fish swimming frantically away from a shark, and she paused in the doorway and snarled and snorted some more, adding in a few hisses for good measure.
I can’t imagine freaking out because my keys had been knocked onto the floor. I’d just figure the cats had done it. I ALWAYS figure the cats did it. If I walked into the living room and all the furniture was floating up at ceiling level, a pentagram was drawn in blood on the floor with Fred’s head laying in the middle, and blue flames were shooting out of the fireplace, I’d be all “GODDAMN IT, like I have NOTHING BETTER TO DO than clean this shit up! I’m going to get towels to clean up this blood, and if the furniture isn’t back where it belongs by the time I get back, I’m going to kick your asses! ELWOOD, STOP DRINKING THE BLOOD OFF THE PENTAGRAM, YOU ASS.”
I completely forgot – someone asked in my comments the other day if the other Cookies had caught up, weight-wise, to Hydrox. I didn’t know, so the last night they were here, I weighed them all.
Orange was the lightest, at 3 pounds 9 ounces.
Blue, Pink, and Keebler were all right under 4 pounds.
And Hydrox? Hydrox blew them out of the water at a hefty 5 pounds! He is going to be one big boy, I’m telling you.
Awww, man, I MISS ORANGE!
“Hellooooo, laydeez!”
Snugglin’ Orange and Blue.
I love it when they sleep like this!
Orange and Crazy Jake. I always say to Jake “Your tunes are looney.” Does he look like a complete nut, or what?
Friday night, watching TV. It gets cold in the front room, so I always have my electric throw over me. The Cookies (and Miz Poo) appreciate the electric throw, too! (All five Cookies were on me!)
This is when you know you have too many cats in the house – when you’ve got six cats on you, and you think “WOW, that’s a lot of cats!” and then you realize there are an additional TEN cats in various places in the house. Oy.
I really missed the Cookies a lot yesterday – I kept wishing they were still here, because it was awfully nice to be able to snatch one up, flip him or her on his (or her!) back, and rub their belly, and just have them lay there and smile up at you while purring to beat the band.
Here’s a short movie of Hydrox, up close and personal:
And Pink haz a complaint (“She’s TOUCHING me!”):
So, the new guys. They are scaredy cats, these guys. They’re both boys, and they’re about three months old. I hadn’t intended to have more fosters so soon – I’m going in for surgery next week – but at this age, they’re pretty easy to deal with, and they need some attention to get them over being so scared, so I told the shelter manager I’d take ’em. They were already named when I got them, so let me introduce you to…
Fagen.
And Steely Dan.
A couple of people have mentioned that Fagen looks like Mr. Fancypants, our cat who disappeared 7 (!) years ago. He certainly does – he doesn’t have the Fancypants sass just yet, but give him time, I’m sure an attitude will develop.
Steely Dan, markings-wise, reminds us of a long-haired Mister Boogers. And check out that first picture of him, above – looks like he’s got a case of the het going on!
They’re both pretty skittish, but they’re certainly not the most skittish kittens we’ve had. They’ll allow us both to pick them up and hold them and they’ll purr. They haven’t approached us yet, but it’s still early. I have high hopes for these guys.
Miz Poo is patiently waiting for Sugarbutt to leave the cave, so she can steal his spot.
Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: If you could solidify body odor into a spice, it would taste exactly like cumin.
2006: Oh, how I love my books.
2005: I need a nap.
2004: Stuff I bought in Maine.
2003: No entry.
2002: Firsts.
2001: You rock, maaaaaaaan!
2000: I’m blue.