Ah, the eternal question. Did you know that in counseling school they tell you never to ask a patient why? Why not ask a patient why? Because the 'why' word puts them on the defensive and the patients won't tell you all of their little dirty secrets. So if someone says to you, "Tell me about your experience," or "What is it that bothers you?" or "How does that make you feel?" you can tell right away they've taken some advanced psychology and/or counseling glasses and you can feel free to mess with their heads. (Tell them about the voices in your head or how you dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt after midnight replete with vintage, black garters and belt. Loads of fun. And the forty-eight hours that you get to spend in the special ward at the hospital is a blast. They serve lots of pudding with plastic spoons.)
So onto my whys. These are questions I cannot help but to ask, because they're buggering about in my head, driving me insane. (Horrid mental image. Try to think of puppies sitting in a large basket, looking at you with big brown eyes. And all the puppies have pink ribbons tied in fancy bows around their necks. Also there's ice cream. Better?)
|Okay, I couldn't find puppies with pink ribbons.|
1. Why can't HIM, the man to whom I'm married and the object of frequent blogging, or Cressy, our 7 year old daughter, look in the refrigerator first to see if there are already opened cans of Fancy Feast to feed her cat, Megaroy? (Seriously, there are like ten cans in the fridge and I do not think cat food smells good. The cat seems to like it, but the cat is basically stupid.) (Incidentally, Megaroy's name briefly became Misty on a particular foggy day last month until Cressy forgot she changed it. I don't think the cat appreciated the 70s ambiance of the moniker. Sorry to any fans named Misty, but it wasn't my idea.) (And since having complained about the fact of the multitude of cans in the fridge, HIM has explained his theorem to me thusly: "One should open a fresh can in the morning so the other half can be used in the evening." I replied with, "What if one started in the evening initially?" HIM: "I would discard that can as useless." Me: "Don't you notice that there's, oh, a million freakin' open cans in the fridge already?" HIM: "When I've already opened the can and am putting it into the fridge, yes, I do. One other can." Me, smoldering and not in a good way, "F-f-f-f-fuck you."
2. Why does the cat bounce at me sideways when I surprise him in the hallway, with his little back arched up and an "I'm goin' to eff you up," expression on his little furry face. He's a little demonic hell imp about to jump me. (No one has really lived until they've witnessed a fat woman fleeing from a three pound cat, which lends itself to the next why.)
3. Why does the cat ambush my leg when I walk by the dining room table? (He lies in wait in the darkness, under the table, waits for me to pass, and btw, there's no other way to get from the hallway to the kitchen, and banzai! bounces up, wraps his little gray, fuzzy body around my leg, scares the crap out of me, and then zips off.) (I'm afraid to go into the dining room.)
4. Why do things accumulate on the kitchen counter despite the fact that I never put anything down there? It's the other side of the black hole of junque. All the junque (sounds better than junk) (wouldn't you rather buy Junque rather than junk?) gets sucked into the black hole, spirals in, and ends up on my kitchen counter, where it lingers in perpetuity or until I put it back where it belongs. (It's a physiological marvel of time/space continuum.) (Does anyone else think that the word 'continuum' looks weird with two 'u's?) (Well, you do now, anyway.)
5. And speaking of kitchen counters, why can't the stupid cat learn to stay off the kitchen counter? I have consistently employed the water bottle method. The cat gets on the counter, he gets squirted with the water bottle until he is properly motivated enough to get off the kitchen counter, and he gets off the counter. The cat then goes to sulk and groom his wet fur, right? NO! The dumb, little bunny sits on the bar stool and puts his paw back on the freakin' counter, daring me, yes, DARING me to do it again.
|Who knew taking a photograph of the cat was an invitation to|
get on the counter? And that is a box of grass for cats which
I was forced to buy by my daughter. I was gleefully blackmailed.
Of course, I have to squirt him. The kitchen counter is my counter. It belongs to me. It is where I prepare food and cook. (I am not a fat woman because I eat out consistently, after all.) I do not want little gray paw prints and God knows what else, up there every time I've got my back turned. (Which is the lesson
Megaturd Megaroy has learned. Don't go on the counter when Fat Woman is about. Otherwise, okee-dokee.)
Okay, that's all the whys I can think of for the moment, but I'm sure there will be more. And probably soon. Oh, wait, I just thought of one. Why am I so sarcastic? I love blogging.