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So we have these two Cats, Gracie and Moosie.  We saved them as feral kittens about a year and a half ago.  It took no small amount of cajoling, debating, and, heck, lets call a spade a spade, PLEADING with my husband, Troy, to get him on board with rescuing these kittens.  Oh, he had good, sound, logical arguments as to why we shouldn’t adopt them, but those landed on the deaf, bleeding hearts of a 7 year old, a 9 year old, and a 42 year old.  I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: God Bless Poor Troy.

There were several more kittens who needed to be rescued, but we agreed to only take the two the kids picked.  And, being my bleeding hearted kids, they chose what appeared to be the most retarded one, complete with Marty Feldman Wonky Eyes, and the biggest, most energetic, psychotic one.

At that point, even I had misgivings.

So, we adopt these critters, and they immediately require like, $400.00 worth of Vet bills to get them cleaned up, de-wormed, de-fleaed, de-ticked, de-intestinal parasited that causes bloody diarrhea. (that’s the medical term.)  Oh, Troy LOVED that. Then there was more money to be spent on the Cat Play Tree, the Cat toys, the organic cat nip (dried), the cat nip perennial plants for the garden (not dried, until we forgot to water them in the middle of the summer….THEN they were pretty gosh darned dried.), the kitty beds (which they ignored in favor of OUR beds…usually right in between Troy’s exceptionally long legs.  NOT the most comfortable for Troy, but even less Comfortable for the unfortunate cat who is sleeping there when Troy rolls over.)

Oh, and lets not forget the CANNED Cat food.  No ordinary dried is good enough for OUR feral,-never-touched-real-food,-but-would-eat-rodent-poop-in-a-heartbeat kitties.  It got pricey.  It got pricey, Fast.

Troy was a good egg about it despite the cost at this point.  He was the patient, put upon husband who was still enamored enough with me to put up with this kind of crap.  And to be fair, the kittens were entertaining as all get-out.  They did silly things, they did endearing things, they were cuddly and sweet, and pathetic and the rescuer in Troy enjoyed saving them.

But there was one defining moment when they really honestly truly won him over.

When they fell asleep in the Bidet. Yes, friends, we own a bidet.  No, we didn’t put it in.  No, we didn’t buy the house because of it, and yes, we use it regularly and have come to depend on it in a non-natural fashion.  But that is for another discussion altogether.

We came in one day to find the little retards curled up around the fountain sprayer on the cool porcelain of our bidet.  And Troy’s heart has been their’s ever since. I wonder how his heart would melt if he came in one day to find ME curled up in the bidet?  Sure, it would take a vat of Vaseline, a crowbar, and maybe some Rib-Spreaders to get me in there, but I wonder just the same.

There is an old saying that I’ll mangle as I share it with you:  If you want to know how good a friend someone might be, don’t look to their current friends, look to their enemies.    I had to eat a few rumballs to fully understand it, but now that I do, I feel very esoteric and superior to my pre-rumball, mangled-saying self.

Anyway, I got to thinking that there IS something to be said about the company one keeps.  It is a direct reflection of ourselves.  A mirror, if you will, of who we are, or who we would like to be.  We are drawn to those kinds of people, and repelled by those who either remind us of parts of ourselves we don’t like, or are just plain Dicks.  (I’m pretty sure that is in Carl Jung or maybe Friedrich Nietzsche.)

I think of my husband, Troy’s, friends…all of them heros, like him.  Well-meaning men, some of them rather hard around the edges, who would give their lives for the benefit of others.

I think of my mother’s friends…most of them who have lived full, adventurous lives, who love to laugh and who have intellect and wisdom.

I think of my Dad, who died 6 years ago, who never met a stranger.  He led the path on so many things.  Had a variety of equally leader like/ power hungry people by his side.

And then I think of myself…..MMmmmm…let’s see:
The Cashier at the drive thru at McDonald’s knows me by name and has for over 10 years.

Likewise the cashier at the Dollar store.

The Cashier at the county liquor store doesn’t know my name, but we recognize eachother when we run into eachother out and about.

The UPS guy and the USPS Gal know me because I give always give them lollipops or Hershey Kisses when they bring me packages.  (Its my small reward to them for hefting it up the hill from my driveway to my door since I am ruled by inertia, and therefore cannot move.)

Oh, the lady at the bakery counter….knows me not only by name, but also by my kid’s various crazy birthday cakes.  And we share recipes.

The guy at the Chevy Dealership Service Department knows me because of the time a mouse crept into my vent system and died, I instructed him and his men to go in with Navy Seal Team Six precision and eliminate it.  They liked that.

That’s about it.  What does it say about me?  Hmmm.  Fast food.  Cheap shopping. Booze.  Smarty Pants remarks.  Good lord!  Its no wonder Troy fell in love with me.  I have to hug myself right now!

Who are YOUR friends?

Here’s the thing, I really don’t want much in life. I’ve finally learned that having THINGS is not the key to happiness.  Oh, sure, conveniences are wonderful, but they aren’t necessary.  Simplify! Simplify!  Simplify!  Wants and Needs are NOT the same thing!

And here is where I become inconsistent.

I can’t live without my car seat heater.  Its not a want, its a NEED.  I love that puppy.  I’ve got this nifty little gadget in my Equinox that not only allows me to start my car from ANYWHERE on this earth that is satellite accessible, but it also starts that beauteous Chevy in its previous setting.  And since my butt-heaters are always set to warm, or “stun”, as I like to call it, they crank up the moment my car does.  The result: I slide right into a warmed up car with a spanking hot seat.

LOVE IT!!!

I’ve been known to sit in a McDonald’s parking lot, scarfing down a sausage burrito with the car running just to feel that warmth.  But that is a different story, (and you probably already read it.) Oh it’s a form of heaven, only slightly below eating a hot stale sausage burrito.  To just sit there, letting all of your poor unloved, unappreciated, undervalued, taken-for-granted butt muscles just bask in the loving warmth of those bucket heater seats. I wait anxiously for the day when they add a butt-massager to the seat.  Oh, THAT will be high on Maslow’s Hierarchy, I assure you.

So if you happen to see me sitting in my little red Equinox in a parking lot in town, with the car running and a contented smile on my otherwise blank face, you have an idea why.  Just keep on about your business.  I won’t want to be disturbed.

For those of you may have heard me in the general upper montgomery county area, I apologize for the yelping and innappropriate language.  This time it wasn’t for fun.  No, really.

You would think someone who eats as much grease and fat and oil as I do would have soft, supple skin.  But no.  No.  That would be too convenient.  Instead I have this freakishly dry, constantly cracking skin on my ha…nds and feet.  I can hide my feet well enough.  Troy hasn’t said anything about me wearing socks to bed every night…even in the height of summer. I’m sure he thinks I have some kind of fetish.

I’m ok with that.

Don’t judge.

But my hands are another problem all together. It’s my left thumb, mostly.  It cracks right at the corner of the nail.  We have tried super-gluing it. We’ve tried second-skinning it.  We’ve tried moisturizers, ointments, nail files, cuticle acid, and Maury’s Miracle Balm.  (don’t ask, I beg you.)  Nothing happens but that my thumb cracks.  And Bleeds.  And hurts like…well,…something that really really hurts badly. I’m out of metaphors tonight.

And when I hit that puppy, or even just graze it…..HOLY-STINKIN-MOLY!!!!!!  It starts with a yelp, then a hop or two, and the frantic shaking of the hand, then the thumb goes instinctively into my mouth, which always causes it to hurt more, so I don’t know why that instinct is even there, and then it ends in a crescendo-ing chain of explitives the likes of which my children should never be exposed to.

But then again, they shouldn’t have to come off the bus to a drunken sot, either.

Life is hard sometimes, you have to be tough.

So lets do a full circle to the rum balls….do you have ANY idea how painful 151 Rum is in a cracked thumb?  These pixels could never do it justice.  ***SIGH***