Chased by Children

I cut the cat. Meow.

This explanation gets a little complicated....try and keep up.

BACKGROUND: 

The wasband and I are not yet divorced.  Most of my stuff still lives with him at the marital home.  Including (but not limited to) my gorgeous high efficiency washer and dryer set.  I do our laundry at the marital home while he's off at work or out of the country or whatever....by "our" laundry I mean mine and the girls, not his (did I really need to explain that?).

In addition, one of the contentious parts of our divorce has been the animals and their future care.  Bibble the Shi-tzu, Cinderella the white persian and Flash the black persian obviously all still need care.  Without boring you with too many details, since the wasband ruined them by purchasing them (they are all three pure breds) and then keeping them confined to small rooms, cages or pens for their ENTIRE LIVES I feel that he should have to reap what he's sown by caring for them for the rest of their natural lives.  Also, my townhouse owner doesn't allow pets...so, there you are. 

END OF BACKGROUND

Today I saw that Flash, the cat in my wasband's garage (where the cat lives in a cage next to the shi-tzu in a pen) was extremely matted.  So, being the helpful, caring, nurturing individual that I am (what? shut it) I gave the cat a bath.  I even used conditioner to help with his coat (much to his delight).  And as I was carefully cutting out some of the larger knots....I cut him....as in, his skin.

The cat is soaking wet from the bath.

I am soaking wet from giving the cat a bath.

The children have just witnessed their mother do something unspeakably heinous (for the very first time, ahem).

Chaos quickly ensued.

The cat was inexplicably not bleeding....I could NOT have handled that.  I wrapped him in a clean towel and whisked him and the freaked out children to the vet.  At the very least I hoped Dr. Pema could give some of us a few sedatives.

The technician was the very one who handled our "intake" with Underdog.  RATS!  This was definitely going to get me on some terror watch list.

Long story short, they put him into surgery immediately and glued him back together.  He will live to fight another day! Hooray!

They told me that this happens often to idiots who own persians.  It seems the correct grooming method is some sort of shears made for sheep....I don't know.  As soon as I have it figured out I will do a public service announcement.  I'll call it, "Cutting the Persian, a cautionary tale".

I just have one question......Mr. Stone is it?

Okay, so you may have heard that Al Gore has been accused by a red headed masseuse in Portland of everything from "inappropriateness" to  "sexual assault" during a massage scheduled at some point in his stay at the Hotel Lucia.  Here is the full story as reported by the Washington Post. 

Gore and the masseuse agree that:  He was staying at that Portland hotel under the alias Mr. Stone and he requested an abominable massage. 

Gore's account is that he received the massage without incident and the masseuse left him on good terms.

The red head told the police (after some months of repeatedly canceling appointments with them) that he requested services slightly lower on his person, which she refused. 

While political pundits and late night comedians are using this as fodder for laughs and another assessment of Gore's legacy, tight on the heels of the announcement of his separation from his wife of 40 years I think there is but one question to ask:

What the hell is an abominable massage?

I have found the cure for depression.....it's my mother.

Sometimes, mostly on the weekends that I don't have my girls, I get down. And when I get down it gets ugly.

I eat things that are bad for me.

I watch movies that are bad for me.

I work out badly (meaning I sit on the excercise bike and don't bike)

I sit around a mope about all the stuff that isn't going well for me. (let's not review that right now).

THEN my mother invariably calls me.  And begs me to come and see her and Dad (presumably to chat briefly before her bedtime at 8pm).  THEN she makes my Dad call me to cheer me up (hard to do through a substantial mustache).  And she tells me that she's praying for me and gives me the verbal equivalent of a band-aid with a kiss. 

Fixes me right up.