The jury is out

Our family is in the throes of a major crisis right now.
The stomach flu.
Payton had it first. Poor girl. She was absolutely miserable. And then I had it, and I was absolutely miserable. And now Geoff has it. And we're all absolutely miserable. The way he tolerates being sick is making me sick right now. God. When I had my stomach flu I was awake practically all night long from either vomiting or nursing the baby. When babe woke up at 7, I tried to hand him over to Geoff so I could sleep for a little bit. But no can doozle. He had to get ready for work. Apparently that is a process that takes over an hour and requires total concentration. I mean, never mind the fact that I can and I do get ready every day in ten minutes flat, and true, I don't look that great most of the time- but still. Neither does he.

Okay, that was just plain mean. But I'm in a nasty mood. I mean, he stumbles out of bed this morning at quarter to ten, rubbing his eyes, moaning and groaning, listing off every symptom that he has, even though, HELLO, I had the same damn thing yesterday!! And I didn't get the luxury of sleeping in. I was up and at it at seven am, relying heavily on Gravol, soda crackers and Coke to get me through the day. I had to take Payton to dance lessons, which I didn't really want to, but I thought 'it won't be so bad once I get there' But once again, no can doozle. What I hadn't counted on was the enthusiastic proclamation of the bouncy dance instructor "PARENT PARTICIPATION DAY!!" and so there I was jumping and marching and pirouetting whilst carrying baby Alex on my left hip, sweating heavily from the flu- although, let's be honest, I probably would have been sweating regardless. Anyways, my point is , that as parents, we don't get sick days. At least, us woman parents don't.

Not to even mention the fact that when I woke up this morning the house was a balmy 26 degrees.
 If I had cranked the heat up like that- do you want to know what would have happened to me??

No, you probably don't. Because it's bad.

But apparently, he's the only one that can handle the thermostat. Me, being just a silly woman, can't understand big works like "thermometer" or "temperature". Anyways, I turned the heat down to twenty. And then down to nineteen, just to spite him. Although, I don't think he's really noticed yet. Me again with my passive agressive attacks that just don't work out. I just end up being cold.


The good news is that I won ten air miles at Safeway the other day. Yes, that is what constitutes good news in our house. Pitiful, really. So I figure that, at this rate, in the next five to ten years or so I may get the chance to do some travelling. And yes. I did say Safeway. As in, not Superstore. I am done with Superstore. Every time I go there I have to wait in line for like half an hour. I figure, it's not worth it to save a few dollars. Because, really, time is money, too. Or so they say. Although, I have actually never been paid for my time, but... that's not the point. The point is, it's annoying.



So... getting back to the travelling thing... I am going to Calgary tomorrow to visit my dear friend Nadine and bringing Payton and Alex with me. I think it will be fun. Payton's first flight so I'm excited for her. It will be nice to spend some time with Nadine. We are planning on going to the Zoo, maybe doing some shopping, should be fun, except for the whole kid thing. Kidding. Love kids. But really, I do hope that they sleep at some point. It will be nice to kick back with Nadine, have a little one on one girl talk- you know, talk about our flow, tampons, that kind of thing. I don't really get that with Geoff. He doesn't like talking about my flow for reasons I don't completely understand. And he could stand to talk about it more. There's a lot that he doesn't know. Like the time that Payton stuck pads all over the bathroom wall, and Geoff said "Randine- Payton stuck tampons all over the wall" and I was like "well, that's interesting, because tampons don't really stick, Geoff." Men. Like the time he said that the liquid fabric softener I've been buying doesn't work. I was like "are you sure you're using it properly, because it seems to work fine for me?" and he was like, all indignant like "Yah. Of course I'm using it properly. What do you take me for?" And I was like "You're pouring it into the little chamber in the agitator that says "Liquid Fabric Softener"?" And he was like "Agi- what?" And I was like "my point exactly."


Turns out he was just dumping it on top of the clothes before he turned the washer on. And then he wonders why it doesn't work.

Anyways, back to my travelling. I want to get a gift for my friends kids, and I always over think these things. I was thinking of getting a Barbie or something like that for the little girl, and a truck or something for the boy. But then I could picture the conversation she would subsequently have with her husband "Honestly, Mark. She should have just got Marisa and ironing board an apron and Jared a big old fishing pole. She could really stand to take some of those gender sensitivity training classes we took at the community college." And I mean, she's totally not like that. My friend Nadine is, God bless her, one of the sweetest people I know, a close second to my dear SIL Lorrie. So now I am thinking maybe books? Those are pretty gender neutral, right? Well, unless I get a book on Sewing Applique for the girl and a Gun and Rifle Book for the boy, which I wouldn't, believe me, I wouldn't. I'm planning on steering clear of those. Believe me you, I don't need a class on gender sensitivity training at the community college to know to avoid those. God. That word 'sensitivity' is such a bitch to type. I type it wrong every time and have to go back and fix it. I just had to do it again. Argh. Anyways, ya, books, books are good, right? But you know what? They'll probably throw their books on the ground and then go off to play with their REAL toys. I'm always projecting my love of books onto other people. "You should read this book or that!" followed by thrusting said book into their arms. Buying their kids books for Christmas and their probably like "ENOUGH with the books already!! If we wanted a damn book we would go to the library!!" But oh well. If books aren't good enough for those kids, then, well, that's too darned bad. They can exchange them. I'll save the receipts.

There. I took a stand.

And speaking of books: the bad news. Another rejection letter. That's two of the four query letters I sent out in January. The other two I've practically given up on. I mean, if they were so intersted in my book you would think that they wouldn't take four months to get back to me, unless they're REALLY slow typers, which you would think, being in the book business, they probably wouldn't be, would they??. But honestly. Is my writing so shabby that they can't even dignify me with a response? A paragraph? A sentence? A rubber stamp on my original letter that says "REJECTED". I would take that right now. I really would. This business. It just sucks.

And speaking of sucking, I need to get back to my real life and tend to my ailing husband, who I can hear from down here, is snoring away up there so God only knows what my kids are doing.
Oh, thank God, he's finally resting. The poor soul. Pray for him.
Pray for ME.
TTFN.

The best of both worlds...

Well... first off all, sorry that my last post was kind of a drag. People think that us blog writers/administrators/editors/producers and CEO's have a fanciful, care free life, but that is just not so. That is a common misconception. I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of you common folk. I'm not living high off the hog here myself, either. We had stew for supper, OK, so that should tell you A LOT about the kind of life I lead.
Anyways, upon rereading said blog it has come to my attention that maybe in some ways I am sugar coating life at home with the kids. Yes it is true that we chased snowflakes and stomped through puddles, but it is also true that I've been puked on, peed on, and yes- even poohed on. I've had kids screaming and crying in time out. I've phoned my husband at work in tears, pleading with him that he HAS to come home because I don't know how much longer I can stick it out for, baby shrieking in the background, dog barking, cat meowing cuz she's in heat (again)- and for anyone who's ever heard a cat in heat- it can scarcely be called meowing. I've had "The best of both worlds" by Hannah Montana stuck in my head for so long now I can't hardly do anything with out starting the refrain "You get the limo out front...". I know all the words by heart and even have my own rendition of "You get the best of both boobs" to which I sing to Alex when I'm nursing him. I have the whole family singing it, and I'm bracing myself for the eventual call from the Public School Board System. Anyways.
I finally did it... I went to Superstore yesterday and I bought a container of baby formula for the Food Bank. I went to bed last night, feeling so excited. I wonder if that baby is drinking that bottle right now? I was wondering. I could almost picture it. It's a good feeling to give back- although I must admit that I bought the President's Choice Baby Formula on account of it being about half the price. Hopefully the baby doesn't mind that.

So my husband is reading this book "The Shack" which is apparently, about God, and now he says he wants to be a better person. So he asks me if he's been a better person. I was like "weelll, I'm not really seeing it. Maybe you need to read the book one more time." Although I will say that he has been taking Gage to Blades games, which has been good, and doing stuff with him for ball. And he bought me a bottle of wine and said that he loves me- although I secretly think that he's just hoping that I'll drink the bottle and pass out under the stairs for a few days so I'll be off his case.

You do that one time, and they never forget.

Just kidding. Well, truth be told-I've never passed out under the stairs. Not for more than a few hours. Anyways, this whole God thing makes me nervous, but if it ends up with more wine for me, then great. If it goes much further than that- well, I don't know.

So lately I've been wanting to lose some weight. I mean, having a pooch is kind of cute and sexy when you're four months pregnant, but when the baby's nine months old, it starts getting a bit old. The problem is, as it turns out, losing weight is not easy- short of a mouth infection. The other day I took a nice long walk down by the riverbank. I could practically feel the fat melting away. And then we were driving home, and we happened to drive past Diary Queen, and it was such a beautiful day- the perfect day for an ice cream treat. And then, as I was shoveling ice cream and brownie and fudge down my throat, I felt the fat coming back again. I was feeling disapointed. But then I read somewhere that with the right pair of control top (I know- ugh) under wear, you can shed ten pounds. And I thought, now that I can do! Yes, I know that they are a bit unsightly. But then again- the way things are going for me- I could probably wear them for three to six months before my husband would ever realize. The only way he could possibly know what kind of underwear I wear is vis-a-vis the laundry- which- Ha. No worries.
Anyways. I should be going right now.
TTFN.

April Already

Frick.
April already. I try not to think about that. The days rolling forward. I have to go back to work in about three months time. All the things I thought I would get done. Write a book. Frick. Paint the upstairs bedrooms. Frick. Join a writing class. Frick.
Although I did paint Gage's bedroom and birth three kittens. Well, I didn't actually give birth to the kittens myself- but I was there. The kittens are now living under my stairs (temporarily relocated after a dog related kitten eating incident) and doing well. It amazes me that cats are innately born with such strong mothering skills. I mean...except for the fact th she let the dog eat one of her babies...that was a slight lapse in judgement on her part... but other than that that cat will leave her babies only for short periods to go eat and take a drink of water, and then she goes right back to them. Sometimes, she'll take a little break for them, but she'll go and stand at the bottom of the stairs, listen to see if they are meowing or not.
It's amazing. If only human mothering were so simple...
It takes a thousand things to run a household. It's not just cooking and cleaning, although there's that, too... but all these little things- like how right now I know that we're running low on laundry soap and cat litter, that Gage doesn't have any matching socks, that Payton needs a dental appointment and Gage is do for his eye exam, that they have a hot lunch next Thursday and I still have to send the permission slip in, that Alex is due for his nine month check in the next few weeks...
These are the things that my husband is blissfully unaware of. This behind the scenes micro management, all of the minutiae that makes this life work.
Anyways, despite all this, the thought of returning to work work does not excite me. Dragging my sleepy babies out of bed in the morning, out in the cold, to go to daycare where surely they won 't get their noses wiped as often as I would prefer, where I wont' be able to sing and dance with them to the Wiggles, where cuddles and kisses and outings to Petland will be a lot more scarce.
In the summer, we sat out in the sun, picnicked in the park, splashed in the splash parks. In the fall, we raked the leaves into a big pile and jumped into it, and the did etchings of leaves at the kitchen table and stuck them all over the walls. In the winter, we made snow angels and went tobogganing and drank hot chocolate. We decorated the tree and a ginger bread house and sang Christmas carols and make snow flakes out of paper and sparkles. In the spring, we splashed through the puddles, paying no attention to how dirty our clothes were getting. We walked the dog along the river bank, laughing as she dragged Payton along.
It's been a good year. I will miss doing this... but I do still have to work. Sometimes I try to think about ways that we could make Geoffs salary work, that if I played with the numbers enough... but still, there's a part of me that does want to go back to work. I think, we could scrimp and save but I that's not what I want. I want to travel with the kids. To move to a bigger house. To someday have a vehicle that wasn't owned by at least three other people, one of which who was (apparently) a really big supporter of CJWW...
Anyways, that's not what I was planning on writing about. But I guess, that's what's been on my mind. All that being said, I know that once I'm back at work for even a day, I'll be fine. Even when I go there to visit or whatever, I always feel so at home there. The smell of coffee lingering in the air. The smell of bleach that hangs in my office. And when I'm there I have something that I don't have here, which is something- maybe like authority?? When I'm here I could argue for half an hour about whether you should or should not wear a jacket outside, and if so- a heavy jacket versus a light jacket- but at work it's all different.
I should be going now.

It happens every time

First of all... I regret to say that I went yesterday to Superstore, and I completely forgot about my plan to end world hunger one can of soup at a time. I remembered when I walked out the door and saw the Food Bank donation box. At first I was really upset. But I thought, that's OK. The seed has been planted. And in some ways, the seed is better than the tree.
Whatever that means.
Ok. Next time. For sure. For shizzle, and you know I'm serious when I break out the shizzle.
Second of all, I tried the Maple Brown Syrup oatmeal. Not very good.
So- sping has sprung. Finally. And we made our annual trek to the local Wal Mart in search of rubber boots. I waited patiently in line. And it happens to me every time. I get stuck either behind or in front of beside some kind of borderline neurotic person who may or not be on medications that they may or may not have forgotten to take.
The guy behind me was thirties, tall and lean. A slightly disheveled appearance. Eyes that seemed skittish, darting furtively around. Hyped up on coffee? Or something worse?? I couldn't be sure. And did he talk. On and on and on.... I heard it all. Troubles with his ex (possible stalker), his busy work shedule (trucker), his battle with the bottle (sober now two weeks), the loss of his lifelong friend and pal, Petey (budgie) who lived a very full life which was apparently, only one year shy of a Guiness World Record for Oldest Budgie, to which I wince and groan and reply "aw, shoot." Because what can I say? What can I do.
This is stuff that you can't even make up.
I have a long history of meetings with whack jobs. Here are some snippets of conversations I've been party to, usually unwillingly:

"See these callouses?? Know where I got them all? Working out. In prison." From the gentleman I was sitting next to on the bus one day.
"They had rocky road fudge at the Ex last summer. Did you ever try out?" From the grocery bagger at Safeway.
"I told my doctor that I thought I might be getting hemorrhoids, so she looked and she said "girl you're way past getting them and into "gottem"" From a woman at dance lessons.
"I had my first babysitting job... oh, God...nineteen...fifty one? Or fifty two?? Back then they didn't have none of the fancy stuff. Cloth diapers and I walked around with diaper pins stuck all up in my hair, because of the static electricity." From and elderly man at the library. Don't ask me about the pins and the electricity. I don't understand.
"My daughter has a baby about that age. Cute, but Indian. It's a foster kid. My daughter doesn't mind, though. Well, she can't have babies of her own, I guess, so she wanted to get foster kids. Well, she thought she could some older ones, but that's all they give her for now, these babies, Indian babies." (from a lady in the laundry soap aisle at Wal Mart)
And even though this doesn't constitute a conversation, I always remember the time at work when a coworker of mine brought a hot dog for lunch. She had it all wrapped up in tin foil, and then she unpeeled it and dipped it in mustard and ketchup that she had in little tupperware containers.
That was just plain weird.
What my face must have looked like as I watched her eat that. Even now when I think about it I screw up my face.
She used to end conversations with "I'm a big believer in the whole thing with Mohommed and the mountain." I would nod along, though of course, what do I know about Mohommed and the mountain?
Anyways, that is all for now. I must be going.

This and That

Just a word of warning- this contains what I will call politely "mature content". This is my post Shraz drinking post, so it may not be for everyone.

Once I had a conversation with my husband. Okay, I've had many, but usually they're totally boring like "we need milk. See you later. Bye." or "I just let the cat outside." But every now and then we have an interesting conversation, and this is one of them. 'Interesting' in a funny kind of way, rather than in a profound or prolific or deep or "dude that's way out there" kind of way. Anways. Without further ado: This is actual dialogue from an actual conversation I had with my actual husband, a page right out of my own life, such as it is. He asked me, and I'm honestly not sure what possessed him to ask me this, if I ever took money for sex. That was pretty much a big N-O, I mean who does?? but I decided that I wanted to kind of, let's say, make things more interesting, by which I mean outright lie, so I said "yeah, once. A long time ago and I'm not proud of it." All serious like. He was like "how much did you get paid" and I said "forty bucks," which seemed reasonable, because after all- how much does sex go for?? I don't have the faintest idea at all. He was like "well, what all did you do for forty bucks?" to which I didn't know what to say. I'm not really down with the sex trade lingo, so I said the first thing that came to my mind, which (rather unfortunately) was "Over Easy. And Sunny Side Up." He was like "those sound suspiciously like the way eggs are prepared." And I was like "Ya, well, where do you think those names come from? The oldest profession in the world. And besides. In the sex trade, we talk in code. You never know when you might be talking to a Narc." And really, when you think of it, Sunny Side Up does sound provocative. I'm thinking- missionary?? And over easy?? Well, that one is open to a lot of possible interpretations. And then he asks me, as he pondered all of this, "did the guy ask for his money back?"
To which I might have taken offense, but I could only laugh in response. Because, after all, he has a point. These days, my idea of 'good sex' is if I can still watch the Tonight Show without interuption. I mean, honestly. If the thirties are supposed to be some kind of a peak, then I'm totally screwed. Pardon the pun.

So, naturally, sometimes I do think about taking up an affair, but then I think you know, I'm just not sure I'm up for it, energy wise. So much to do- I'd have to shave my legs more often (more often?? OK, at all, ever), get new underwear. Specifically, underwear other than 'Hanes Her Way' (God damn them for being so comfortable), that kind of thing. Now you're probably thinking that's bad, and not just the Hanes Her Way part, but the whole affair thing in general. But I only mean it, really, in the abstract. Like when I watched PS I Love You, I absolutely, totally and completely fell in love with the character of Gerry. And then I start to think....

Well I won't tell you what I started to think. Although it may or may not involve the Sunny Side Up and/or Over Easy.

Anyways. I'm pretty sure that a) Gerry is not real and b) even if he was real he died of a brain tumor so c) it's harmless to daydream a little bit. But mark my words- if I ever get married again (which you know, is very unlikely) I will marry someone with an Irish accent, or brogue or whatever they call it, if I have to travel the world over to find it. The thicker the accent better. And he will have a Celtic tattoo as well. Maybe several. I don't know. We'll have to see.

Anyways. Onto purer subjects

Some good news. Well, actually bad news that turned into good news. I had a really, really bad mouth infection. My whole jaw hurt so bad I couldn't hardly open my mouth at all except for like a little, teeny, tiny crack. At first I thought, OH NO, TENTANUS!!-- because, remember, I'm really way long overdue for my booster. But, thankfully, it wasn't tetanus and I'm still alive- for now- I wouldn't say the crisis is over. But anyways. The only thing I could eat was soup and Carnation Instant Breakfast. So I started taking antibiotics. And bonus!! The antibiotics caused a really severe bout of vomiting and diarrhea, which was kind of a bitch at the time but today I weighed myself and I lost like 5 pounds!! I was like "Wow. If only I got these mouth infections more often." One a month and I would be good. Twice tops.
I just feel so much skinnier. I always do after I've been sick for a while. I just want to put on my skinny pants and prance around. "Look at me, Gerry! Come and get me now, Gerry."

And now the bad news. I'm back to hating the dentist. I went a few weeks ago for a cleaning and it was BRU-TAL. I think the technician had the term "cleaning" my teeth confused with "gouging" my teeth. But I had a good run there. I've now had enough dental work done (I think- keep your fingers crossed for me) that if I die horribly and my body is too much of a mess to identify, due to 'decomp' (as they say on CSI) or burning or what have you, I'll have enough dental records to ID me, which is a huge relief right there. That's some good piece of mind, just to know that.
Anyways. That's that.
I'm going to bed now.
Good night.

Good Intentions

Hello again, it's been a while since my last entry. Every single day I have really honestly intended to come down here and write, but for some reason or another I haven't. Lots of crazy stuff going on. And by 'crazy stuff' I don't mean my usual mid winter Idol watching, although, of course, there's that, too. What's with that new judge? Another Paula? Like we need another one of those. Anyways. But like, literally- crazy stuff. My stupid cat went and had kittens. And then my stupid dog went and ate one of them, which constituted a very major crisis around here- two seriously disgruntled kids and one mildly constipated dog. And then I've been painting Gage's room in preparation for my parents visit- which has now came and went- because we all know how fussy they are and I'd finally had it with their not-so-subtle remarks about WOW!! How nice it is that Lorrie and Trent have a proper guest room, and Gee, isn't that nice that at least one of their kids cares about them??
Anyways. Here I am. It seems that many of my good intentions just go out the window. Last week I went to Superstore and bought (among other things) a box of Maple flavoured oatmeal and a pint of blue berries which I swore I was going to eat every day for breakfast whether hungry or not. It sounded so good in theory. A bowl of oatmeal and a serving of berries, maybe on the top, maybe on the side. That part I would have to play by ear. Anyways. Well I ate the blueberries. On top of a pile of pancakes with a side of bacon. The oatmeal is still in the cupboard, unopened. I just look at the morning and I just can't do it. Usually I take my breakfast of Pepsi and chocolate chip brownies in bed while I watch the Early Show. That crack of the pepsi can just really gets my day started right and I just don't think a bowl of oats is going to cut it for me, not unless is served on top of bacon or waffles or pork chops, and even then I'd probably have to scrape most of the oatmeal off of it first.
So then I thought, well who cares. I'll just go for a little power walk in the morning and it'll be even better than eating a traditional breakfast. Because really. Breakfast Shmekfast. And I promised myself that NO MATTER WHAT I would go outside for a walk EVERY DAY. But then the first day it took me about half an hour to go out to the garage, get the stroller, bring it around front, dress up the baby, dress up Payton, get myself ready. Finally we were ready to go and then we walk for like five minutes and the baby is crying and Payton is laying in the ground doing snow angels refusing to go any further and I just can't deal with it, I'm trying to push the stroller through the snow but it's just not designed for it and I'm cursing and finally it's just like, you know what. Exercise Shmekersice. Because I bet if I put on one of those little pedometer dealy's I probably walk a fair amount anyways throughout the day- what with the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning, etc, etc. That's what I'm going to do. Get one of those pedometers and find out exactly how much exercise I'm getting already. Because why should I do more if I don't really need it- strictly speaking. Because they do say that there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and I'm not going to argue with that. I've heard of people actually having heart attacks from over excercising. And besides. I'm already married, which I like to say to my husband means that I'm already a boughten cow so the milk no longer matters.
I don't even know if that makes any sense.
But whatever. You get my point.
And then I thought that I would try to write every day. Set a time, like from 2-4 when Alex is taking his nap, and get into the habit of it. But the problem is that that's when American Justice is on, so, it doesn't really work out.
So- other than that, nothing much really new with me.
I relapsed and bought Becel today. I totally didn't even mean to do it, either. I just walked past the butter aisle, and was like, oh ya, we need butter, and grabbed some and put it in the cart. So now I can relate to heroin addicts a bit better, less judgement. It's not as easy as you think. Old habits really do die hard, just like they say. I'm going to have to get more involved. Do some street outreach. Maybe some public speaking. Now that I know how the other half live, I just want to do something, you know. Get out there. Share my story. Take it to the people.
Also, I decided today when I was at Superstore-ya, basically I do go there everyday, in case that's what your thinking. I'm pretty much like "Hey, Rosa, Did you dye your hair? It looks so nice like that, here let me get a picture of it. I'll email it to Gladys. She's on vacation." when I go through the check outs. But that's not the point. I decided that I, yes little old ME, wanted to make a humanitarian effort and buy something for the Food Bank Box every time I go to Superstore. I always walk past it, feeling a little guilty as I heave my heavy bags of Cocoa Pops and Mint Oreos and other impulse buys. I'm going to start donating. Even if it's something little. Like a can of soup. Given the sheer AMOUNT of times I go there, I'm sure it could actually make a difference in the long run. I mean, that's how we change the world, right, little things. One Random Act of Kindness at a time, that's what God says. And by God I mean Morgan Freeman playing him in a movie with that guy from the Office about an Arc.
And I urge you to do the same thing, dear Reader, who ever you are, if indeed you do exist. We might make things hopefully a little bit better for someone else out there. I mean, I'm not exactly living high off the hog here, either. I had lasagna and garlic toast for supper, OK. A very plain, low budget meal. With salad. And little stuffed artichoke hearts with a bernaise sauce. And lobster bisque. A very middle class meal. OK I was joking about the artichokes. But as I said. I'm sure we could all spare a can of soup or two.
Me with my good intentions again.
We will see how it pans out.
Good night.
And also, I was joking about the lobster bisque as well.

Page 4

This is page 4 of the book I am working on.


The Shirley situation gets no better. In fact, as the day passed by her once slim figure gave way a little more to a slightly tell tale bulk around her middle. I was growing quite concerned.
“Did she miss her period?” my friend Ella asked. We were having coffee during our break between classes in the cafeteria.
“How the hell would I know if she missed her period?”
She shrugged in reply.
“It’s not like she uses supplies or anything, or keeps a little calendar marked with a big red X. She’s a cat.”
“Do cats get their periods?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Well how can you be so sure she’s pregnant?”
“I’m not sure. That’s the point. I need to find out.”
“You’ll find out when you have a sock drawer full of kittens. That’s the way it is with cats.”
“I don’t want things to go that far. If she’s pregnant, she’s not having kittens. She’s too young to be a mother. She’s still a baby herself. She still plays with her mousy toy. She’s just not ready for this.”
“She’s a cat!” Ella said, exasperated.
“Barely. She’s only nine months old! Not old enough to handle this responsibility. She’ll have to give up all of her hobbies. Grow up too fast.”
Ella rolled her eyes. “Hobbies? For Gods sake,” she said with a sigh as she rummaged through her oversized bag. After a few minutes of furious digging around, she managed to produce a business card. “Here. Phone him. He’s an old family friend, mention my name. Maybe he’ll cut you a deal.”
I glance at the card. Dr. G. J Lange, DVM.
“Is he good?” I asked.
Ella replied with a shrug.
“Is he the best?” I asked with the intensity of an CIA interrogator.
She shrugged again.
“Ella! This is serious. I’m not taking Shirley to some back alley butcher shop cat abortionist with a rusty coat hanger. I want this thing done and I want it done right. I owe it to her. It’s my fault she’s gotten herself into this mess,” I said, blinking away the tears that were forming.
“I don’t know if he’s the best. He only ever dewormed my dog once, so it’s hard to know, really. I think he did a good job of it, though. Haven’t seen any worms in the dogs ass, but I don’t really look that closely at it.”
“That’s a pretty good endorsement. Good enough for me, anyways. I’ll think about it,” I said in reply, pocketing the card.