Y’all know this is a G-Rated blog. Always has been, but today, things may change. And if you’re dainty---I’ll interject a caveat in the words of the inimitable Miss Nigella, “Look away Now.”
Yesterday was a lovely day. It was a sort of disjointed day, in that Caro and I started out to make some candle-rings---noted in the Pink Roses post above. I GOT the pink roses and the little wire rings, the just-the-right-shade of blush-pink candles, the greenery, the silky cascade of white flowers to intersperse, and we got out the clippers, the needle-nose pliers, the green tape. Then we went upstairs looking for the BIG knee-high silver candlestick to hold one of the rings and candle. Caro thought it might be in the little white dresser set smack against the wall behind the couch.
We moved out couch, explored drawers and shelves, finding a pretty pink Depression-glass fluted bowl for the low arrangement, plus all sorts of room for the stack of Christmas Marthas which had been beneath the sitting room lamp, the Winter candles, some seldom-used tablecloths. Decided what the heck, we’ve got the couch out anyway, and swept all behind and beneath, extending our brooms’ reach to the far corners of the hardwood. Swept up a few fallen begonia leaves, decided to clear the entire table and deadhead the plants.
Spilled leaves and stems, swept again. Cleaned off coffeetable, polished glass, re-arranged bibelots on plant table in corner. Ran back and forth downstairs for Windex, cloths, tiny broom and dustpan, ice from the machine. Caro remembered box, long lost, holding the yards and yards of garland with hundreds of pale pink roses which had been the “valance” six or eight years ago when we got the living room sheers. That would look nice over sitting-room arch where Christmas garland had been.
Downstairs to get step-stool, up to hold and measure and drape. Garland down again, to get spilled roses from bottom of box and fill in bald spots. Up and up. Prettyyy!!
Getting kinda late in the day, so we decided to part ways and go start different parts of dinner, her in her kitchen, me in mine. I stop to admire lamp, fairy, hand-clutch of roses just laid down there until we need them. Little did I know how MUCH I was gonna need something pretty to look at.
Chris home with week’s groceries---all the attendant puttings-away and dividing into packages for the freezer. I to kitchen, him to computer to finish a letter he’d started. He’d decided in the grocery store that since FuzzyPup is so fond of the fishy flavors of Alpo, perhaps some cat food might be just the ticket. I don’t think it’s quite the thing to cross species on the formulas, but what the heck---I’d see if he liked it, anyway---we had four cans. Chris at computer; me in kitchen.
Fuzzy alerted me that his tummy was ringing; I opened a tuna-sized can of 9-Lives (which WAS TUNA, which plays into this melodrama in just a moment). The always-has-been method of making “Fuzzy’s Dinners” is a couple of tablespoons of Alpo scooped out of the Tupperware into a little bowl, then covered with water. Microwave set for One Minute, and when the countdown hits “40” there she is, ready to be mixed with a little dry food and served. I followed procedure.
Chris, typing away, asked, “How do you spell grammatically?” and I started spelling. Somewhere in between the twice-asking “one M or two,” and my walking over to spell it S-L-O-W-L-Y, an enormous BANG! emanated from the forgotten microwave. Sputtering a BAD word under my breath, I ran for the kitchen, threw open the door (definitely NOT to the moon on new-fallen snow) and was met with THIS:
It’s exploded Nine-Lives. Tuna Flavor. With CHEESE in it. In little goldy pellets mixed in with the brown clumps. FISHY clumps. Like cat vomit. And my language matched the occasion---anybody know the Southern term "Blue Streak"? It had been a long day, I was tired, and yelling Frell, Frack or Frickin’ at intervals seemed to help. Some. I’d slam the door and say another one. I grabbed out the big glass tray from the bottom, clustered with unspeakable detritus from the ocean’s depths, plus whatever came out of the Velveeta Plant’s dumpster, and practically threw it into the sink. MORE WORDS. More slamming.
I sprayed the whole inside of the thing with Pine-Sol orange---two doses, and I probably swore with each whoosh. It was TUNA. Old yucky non-human grade TUNA. Fish. The innards and lips and eyeballs of FISH. But now it smelled better. And we started laughing and saying every bad word we could think of, just Hee-Hawing and shouting obscenities, while Caro laughed, too, but kept her distance from these two loonies and that horrible smell.
And I slept really well last night, probably the endorphins from all the cussin', and have been quite fine today. But CAT-FOOD!
I swear, we coulda put the whole dang CAT in there and not have made such a mess.
And it still don't smell like roses, but a good CUSS is kinda freeing, somehow---I think it's probably better than Prozac.
