Narcissit? Who me?

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Isn't that just the way it goes...

Does this ever happen to you? Something comes along that is legitimately, laugh-out-loud funny, and you go to your little blog that is read by your sister and like three friends and you try to write about it and it just isn't funny? That happens to me all the time.

I try and make everything I write about on here funny, I take everything that happens, and I try to see the humor in it. Sometimes I think it works, other times people get worried about me because I sound so depressed. Other times I get real whiney, but let's pretend that everything I say on here is funny and humorous, and everyone laughs. Okay, so now we are in a different reality but everything is the same except everything I say is funny. Maybe this is getting too technical, but I'll move on. Everything that I write about isn't usually that funny when it happens. Usually I am making a fool of myself, which feels like a cold sweat running down your back. Not funny when it happens, but I can laugh about it afterwards. Buying ten donuts is a really funny story, and I like to tell it, but when it was happening I wanted to drown myself in the scolding hot (and fresh!) coffee they were serving. When I was peeling potatoes, I was ashamed that I made it 23 years without ever preparing a tuber vegetable. But when I can re-think it, and when I write about it, or tell the story to someone it becomes funny. Maybe it is the amount of free-range, and exaggeration that can be applied afterwards that makes those instances funny. But what about when something happens that makes me fall over laughing, can it still work? We'll see.

I was looking after my niece. Actually not true, I was present while my niece was being looked after by my mom. With her she brought along a tiny little kitten. A tiny little thing, like 5 weeks old or something. It was so little and squishy and fuzzy and adorable, that if my niece didn't protest so vehemently, I would have eaten the thing whole. It was so cute, and his name was Tiara. Admittedly, not the most masculine name, but when you heard my nieces side of the story, you understood that "he" was actually a "she" and actually a princess, it makes sense.

Anyways the kitten was good as gold all day long. He made a little nest in a little basket and my niece could carry her around the house like this year's hottest new accessory. He/she made hardly a squeak all day, so it was easy to forget that there was a real kitten in the house. Often my mom or I would look at each other, and ask when was the last time we saw the basket. We would find it in the hallway, the downstairs living room, the playroom, each time filled with a happy little kitten. It ate a little cat food, and my sister took it to the litter box, and it was by far the easiest pet to have in the house.

My niece as staying late because my oldest sister was away, and so after ten in the evening my mom rocked my niece to sleep in the chair in the living room. The kitten and I tried to bond, but I think he suspected that without my niece coherent enough to object, I might just try to introduce him to the inside of my mouth, so he mostly hung around my brother. My brother has hated cats since he was a little kid and never got along with our old cat, and most of the kittens we had around the ol' homestead were best handled with welding gloves, but they have always loved him. Cats flock to him, so much so that our old cat decided to birth two batches of kittens underneath his bed. He was also allergic as a child, so Princess' (our old cats) affections towards him could be understood as attempts on his life, but regardless other cats love him. Ever since she was a tiny speck of a cat, Olive would not leave him alone. Leaving me to constantly remind him, much to his humiliation, that "Olive loves her uncle." And this little kitten was no exception. When he wasn't in his little basket, looking around with this watery blue, kitten eyes, he was snuggled up underneath my brother's chin, asleep. He was like this most of the evening. Then my brother put him back in his basket, and went off to bed.

I, was reading Steve Martin, swathed in my Snuggie, happily sipping tea (1/2 tea, 1/2 sugar) with the kitten sitting on the couch beside me in the basket. I was happy as a clam. My mom underneath her sleeping youngest grand-baby, was effectively pinned to the chair, watched NCIS. Everything was coming up roses. Until the kitten started to make a very peculiar sound.

He made a few squeaks throughout the day, but mostly he just wanted to snuggle my brother's whiskers, or he was being suffocated by a stuffed toy, or at the hand of an overly-affectionate three year old. But this was something different. There was an urgency to the noise, and when I finished reading Steve's hilarious sentence, I noticed that there was some urgency in his body movement as well. He was starting to push...

Okay, I know that here at "Confessions" people have come to expect a certain level of humor. They come here for the highbrow, intellectual humor, I know, and they return again and again for my insights on the human condition. This entry is the exception and not the rule (ya, right...) and there is really no two ways of slicing things: what comes next is a poop story. If this offends you, you can stop reading. But come back later, they are not all like this. Also note there is references to urination.

So the kitten was pooping in the basket. He was squealing, and Mark Harmon was solving a military murder on TV, my mother was uselessly trapped underneath a sleeping three-year-old, and I was panicking. What do you do in this sort of situation? Do you pick up the pooping kitten, do you move the entire basket and take him to the litter box? Or do you throw the book your reading, up-end your cup of tea, and move like a navy blue, blanket-with-sleeves-tornado to the kitchen screaming and tearing sheet upon sheet of paper towel. I chose the not so common third option. And boy, do I wish I had picked any of the other ones.

I ran to the kitchen and tore off about thirty paper towels, then ran back to the basket on the couch-screaming "HE'S POOPING! HE'S POOPING!" When I got back to him, I look in the basket and find he has relieved himself in more ways than one. "AH!" was my way of coping with that little surprise.

"Get him off the couch!" my mother whisper-yelled at me.

So I pick up the basket and find that his little kitty-urine had soaked through onto the Sears Wishbook it was placed on!

"He PEED!" I yelled at my mother.

"Shut up!" She whispered back! "Did any get on the couch?" she added.

"I think so!" I said. As there was a mark on the couch.

"Open up the cushion and don't let any soak into the foam, then get some detergent and water on a cloth and dab the rest off"

"What do I do with the kitten?" I asked.

I had placed the little guy, still in his messy-basket, onto the floor near my feet, where he continued to poop like a play-dough fun factory.

"He's still pooping!" I screamed at my mother.

"Then take him out of there!" my mom instructed.

So I picked up the little, gender confused, guy in a break in his 'business' and then looked to my mother: "What do I do now?" I asked.

"Put him down" my mom said.

So I did. I put the little guy down on the floor, and turned my attention to the couch, and the destroyed catalogue that once held the dreams of many little children. I pulled open the cushion, and stuffed about twenty sheets of paper towel inside to protect the precious foam. Then I laid some more on the ground to soak up my tea. Then I ran to the laundry room to get the towel and the detergent to wash off the cushion.

"Where is the kitten now?" my mom asked, astutely.

And I had no idea where he had gone. When I put him on the ground I hadn't paid any attention to what he was doing, but rather to what I was supposed to do with the cushion, and the Wish Book, and keeping the sleeves of my Snuggie cleaned.

"You'd better find him" my mom said, over top my niece's tiny head.

"Right!" I said, and knelt down to examine under the chairs and table in the living room.

"Kitty kitty kitty..." I called to little Prince Tiara, "Where are you?"

Then he came wandering out from behind the couch, still with the cutest little eyes you ever did see.

So what did I do? I put him back in his basket, when my mom pointed out: "What's that on your pants?"

"What? Where?" I said as she pointed to the side of my pant leg, to a giant wet spot just above my knee.

This was the portion of the evening when me (the optimist) and my mom (the realist) played the "pee or tea" game where we guessed whether or not any sort of wetness was a product of my spilt cup, or a baby-feline bladder.

Yep, it turned out that Sears was not the only one to take the hit, that evening, me and my best dress-Snuggie also got a brunt of the kittens tirade of urine across the living room.

I of coarse responded with a calm, adult reaction that goes something like: "AHH! THERE'S PEE ON ME!" and "MY SNUGGIE!" and tearing off both and snuggie and my sweat-pants and throwing them in the washing machine.

"Take the kitten's blanket too!" my mom called to me. So I picked up the kitten, put him on the floor, and took the blanket out of the bottom of the basket (which somehow avoided getting wet at all!) and throwing it in the wash with my pants and snuggie.

"Get it off the couch too!" My mom reminded me.

So I washed and scrubbed and rinsed the cover of the couch cushion, all in my underwear, when my mother asked me, again: "Where'd you put the kitten?"

Crap.

"Here kitty kitty..." I called. And this time he was much easier to find as he was behind the foot-stool, in the middle of the living room. Still pooping.

"What do I do?!" I called to my mother, who was now laughing so hard, and so silently that she was shaking violently, and still holding a sleeping baby.

And that is when I lost it. I collapsed on the floor, laughing so hard, I am pretty sure, had the kitten not been relieving himself of it, I would have scared the shit out of him.

The kitten was walking a few steps and pooping as he went, as I laid near him, in my underwear, unable to breath because I was laughing so hard.

To me, this happens. When my mother is incapacitated, my brother has gone to sleep, a tiny kitten has turned my nice evening at home, into a whirl-wind of laundry and soap, and Bissell cleaners, scrubbing, and cat-pee on my leg.

And god it was funny.

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