My Feeble-Minded Feline

I have a routine in the morning.  Hit snooze alarm untold number of times, then pee, then feed Milo.  You'd think after three years of never deviating from this routine, that Milo would understand this.  Alas, it is not so.  Every morning, Milo becomes so verklempt because he thinks he is starving within an inch of his life.

It starts with the snooze button.  A normal cat would understand this is part of the routine and accept it.  Milo is not a normal cat.  To him, the hitting of the snooze button is a sign of the apocalypse and therefore, his impending doom via starvation.  Milo's mind doesn't seem to think past the current moment and remember that hitting the snooze comes first, food later.  All he knows is that I am not actively getting out of bed and putting food in his bowl RIGHT THIS SECOND so clearly, I am choosing to make him starve to death and I will never ever ever ever ever feed him again and OMG!!11!1!eleventy!!  He chooses to express this distress by sitting on my bedside table and leaning within inches of my face and meowing.  When this doesn't work, he paws at my face, claws extended.  When that doesn't work, he proceeds to pace around my body, working himself up into phase two. 

Phase two is where Milo is so completely emaciated that he can hardly function.  Phase two is always initiated by my choice to pee first, feed second.  This choice is the breaking point for Milo.  When I finally sit up in bed, Milo thinks his meowing, pawing, and pacing has worked and "ALLELUIA! She will feed me!" He leaps off the bed, runs into the kitchen, jumps on the counter, and leaps on top of the fridge, where his holy grail (food) lies.  Then, he turns around, to let me know where his food is and *gasp* I'm not there.  This is where my cat's puny little head implodes.  His world ends and he longer understands anything.  He forgets how to jump, how to meow, and that he is a cat. 

Somehow, through the haze of confusion, he comes and finds me on the toilet and proceeds to let me know how distraught he is.  He starts by sitting in front of me and attempting to meow.  I say attempting, because at this stage, he can't.  He has himself convinced he is so weak, he can't meow properly. He opens his mouth and little creaky sounds that resemble nothing of a meow, come out.  Sometimes, his mouth opens and closes and no sound comes out.  When my cold, cold heart doesn't respond to this, he gets even more desperate (as if that is even possible). He reaches a paw out (claws extended) and attempts to hook my hand and bring it to him to pet him.  "If only you would reassure me that this fate that is about to befall me will be okay.  Never forget me."  Alas, I have no room in my sleepy, sleepy heart to console him.  His next step in his attempt to demonstrate how he is weakening (by the moment) with hunger is to attempt to jump on the counter, to give himself a higher vantage point in order to emulate superiority.  This attempt always ends in failure as Milo jumps into the counter, further dislodging precious brain cells, before he finally makes it on top of the counter. 

The entire time I'm in the bathroom, Milo has to keep up a constant barrage of creaking and pawing, lest I forget for a second that feeding him is the most important thing in the world.  This cat believes he is actively dying and will go down fighting every step of the way.

Finally, I get around to feeding him, and he runs in between my feet, tripping me all the way to the kitchen and getting distressed when I slow down and fall because he tripped me again.  Then, he eats, and the few brain cells left in his head rejoice and re-energize and hopefully restore some form of temporary sanity in Milo's bleak life.

Best Kid's Toy. Ever.

Composer action figures.  Now I know what toys I want for my kids! 

Manodorant

I buy manodorant.  It's cheaper and it works better.  I ran out of my Old Spice and went to buy another bar of it.  Found out, they came out with FOUR new scents.  It was love at first sniff with Denali.  I had to buy it.

Apparently, my pits now smell like "wilderness, open air, and FREEDOM."

When I walk into a room, people now ask, "What's that I smell?  Why, it's the unmistakable scent of FREEDOM!"

A Bus Adventure

Since my car is possessed by a demon and in the shop, I've had to take the city bus to commute to work.  I'm no stranger to public transportation, and quite enjoy the interesting things that can be observed on the bus!  It's really quite exciting, once you embrace it.

At first, I thought riding the bus here wasn't going to be nearly as entertaining as riding the bus in Florida.  However, it wasn't long before Ohio lived up to the usual splendor of the days of yore.

It was my second evening on the way home.  Everthing looked calm and normal.

I wasn't quite sure where my stop was and like the ding-dong that I am, I pulled the cord a stop too soon.  In front of everyone, I had to shout out my mistake to the driver, so he would know to go further one more stop.  This caught the attention of the guy in front of me.  He started to turn, to find out what idiot doesn't know how to get off the bus.

That's when I saw it.   

It.

The big IT right in the middle of his forehead.


His evil eyes, glaring at me, making me squirm in my boots were enough to chill my blood (and my hands, because I forgot my gloves), but I could not stop staring at what I was pretty sure was a BULLET wound in the middle of his forehead.  I stared at it for a good half a minute, transfixed by its powers of hypnosis. 

I didn't want to mess with bullet hole guy.  Between the blood, stitches, and what I was pretty sure was an indentation of sorts, I was pretty sure he was plotting my death.  I ran off that bus so fast. . . okay, I actually tripped while standing.  I wanted to run. I wanted to leave the creepy horror-film moment that I was experiencing.  I didn't want to give him another moment to contemplate my demise.  It wasn't a moment too soon that I was tripping my way back out into the cold, free from the bullet hole guy.

Why Does Tom Selleck Look Like Stalin?

Why does Tom Selleck look like Stalin?  Someone please explain.

My Ninja Cat

My cat, Milo, probably thinks he is the biggest, baddest cat around.  He would say he's one part ninja, one part Chuck Norris, and eleventy billion parts awesome.  I, however, disagree with this assessment.

He is a thieving bitch cat.

One nondescript and rare evening, I felt like cooking dinner.

It was great.  I was being healthy, and cooking chicken and some vegetables.  Yay me!  Milo was a little confused: "Cindy? Cooking?  What's up with that? OOoooh, she's making my favorite, chicken."  Meanwhile, it was a Wednesday night and OOOH! Survivor was back on!  Hellloooooo Jeff Probst!! 

Little did I know, Milo took this opportunity of inattention to practice his ninja kitty moves.  Clearly, I was leaving his dinner on the stove for him to hunt like the great ninja/Chuck Norris/hunter that he is, while watching my dessert (Jeff Probst) on TV.

*Snatch*
*Jump*

Milo had successfully hunted his dinner from the stove!  Ninja Milo ran into the living room and proceeded to eat my dinner on the floor next to me.  For a moment, his secret was safe, and Milo was a happy ninja  cat.

Then, I heard a sound, and it wasn't the pitter-patter of my heart as Jeff Probst's angelic visage graced the screen.

Ninja cat? More like bitch cat!  RAWR MILO! YOU EVIL HEINOUS, THIEVING BITCH CAT.

I'm sure Milo had some thoughts of his own, since I was less-than-praiseworthy of his ninja skills.

After I calmed down and chased the evil bitch cat out of the room, I ended up relegating myself to my usual dinner of PB&J, which remained safe from the ninja cat.

The "Off" Button

Today, one of my toddlers started throwing a fit because I wouldn't let her rip a book out of another kid's hands.  "That's not nice.  We don't take toys from friends."  As her fit blossomed into a glorious crescendo of irritating noise, I sighed.  I had two choices: feel angry and annoyed, or opt for anger's ugly cousin, sarcasm.  I went with the cousin.  "Do you come with an off button? Because, that'd be really nice right about now!"  She nodded.  I was intrigued.  "Well, do you have any idea where your off button is?"  She looked around: to the left, then to the right, and then downwards, noting the buttons on her shirt.  She pointed at her buttons.  "Oh.  That's where your off button is?  Well, can you press it?"  She pressed one of her buttons.  The fit ceased.  I laughed.  Thank you, my dear little one.  Thank you for using your "off" button.