There is one major difference between Henry the cat and myself. Well, actually there are a lot. I rarely meow, if I wore fur I would get yelled at, and he is male. But the ONE major difference is that he doesn’t care if he gets a pimple because, well, he’s a cat. Cats don’t seem to care about much. Except of course, if they are fed, have their bellies scratched and if there are toes to bite. Hmmm…sounds like someone I once dated, but he wasn’t neutered.
Cats don’t have to have jobs, they can sleep anywhere they choose and they like to kill things and bring them to you, because they still think they are tigers.
Last October, Henry woke me up in the middle of the night by licking my nose. I promptly carried him out, came back to my bed to find, Phineas Schnicklefritz, one of our hamsters, lying dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a gift from Henry to his Kitty-Momma. I came downstairs, put Phineas in a box and outside, and then noticed something on the floor in the kitchen. I turned on the light to find Hamstersaurus Rex (hamster number two) next to Henry’s food bowl. I put him in the box with Phineas and tentatively went to the cage to see that Henry had pushed the cage bars in, presumably with his head and freed all of the hamsters. Then stalked them one by one. The only one that was still not found that night was Kevin. (yes, Kevin. Phineas Schnicklefritz, Hamstersaurus Rex, and…Kevin. I know.)
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen at 5am. It was still dark, I was barefoot, the smell of coffee from my preset coffee pot lulling me into a false sense of security. Then I stepped in...Kevin. Well, a piece of Kevin. Well, actually pieces of Kevin. Three to be exact. Something resembling an organ of some type, a foot and I have no idea what the other furry little piece was. Didn't really examine it too closely.
For the rest of the week, I continually found pieces of Kevin. (which a friend of mine thought would make a really great name for a band) I was warned by my favorite Veterinarian, Terri, this would happen, but ignored it. It was Henry's and the hamsters' destinies, I guess. Rodents and Felines and their ways of life. The hunt, the chase. I really never wanted to experience the food chain in action nor experience it in my own home, but I guess it is all part of their lives. Cycle of life, so to speak.
Like me. Not that I kill hamsters or anything. I thought about it once when Kevin wouldn’t get off the damn wheel at 3am, but never went there. No, I am talking about the cycle of life for a woman. (Did you see that transition coming? Or was it like, a really good twist? I was reticent to compare hamsters and women. Let me know how it goes for me, won’t you?)
I am forty-three, have crow’s feet and yet still, my peri-menopausal self decides it needs to add a pimple to the mix. It’s just not fair. It’s like, just pick one, please. Really, pimples or wrinkles. Just pick one, damn it. Not both, I don’t have the energy for this. And it’s the damn hormonal kind, so it doesn’t matter what I do, once a month, there is always one. Or two. Strategically placed where I would need to cut my bangs or wear a burka to hide it.
Cycle of a woman: born, wear tiaras, chase boys, get your period, let boys chase you, go to college, keep chasing back and forth, eventually have babies, continue to wear tiaras, stretch out the belly a few times, get back on a cycle, then all of a sudden your period goes from 28 days to 40 days to 22 days and you wonder why you are sweating when it is fifty degrees out. It is then, the thought of killing hamsters doesn’t sound so crazy. Ah, the cycle of life.
Then of course we get to add the whole premenstrual-ness to the mix. Tonight, I actually explained what PMS was to my male children. I told them I was glad they were guys so they would never have to experience this themselves. At least not until they are in serious relationships with girls over the age of twelve.
“Well, what exactly is DMS?” asked Max.
“Well it’s PMS, honey, it’s a girl thing. It’s when mommy yells, then cries then starts laughing and then cries again.”
“Oh…that.” Max sighed and clutched his teddy-bear named Rivet. “Yep, that doesn’t sound like fun, mommy. I’m glad I have a penis.”
“Me too.” said Dash. “Penises are great.”
And that was the discussion I had with my boys before bedtime. They are going to need therapy someday, aren’t they?
Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane. Same difference.
The thought of sharing my Premenstrual, peri-menopausal, slightly insane self with more males than Max and Dash and Henry is a bit daunting. I would have to get my own red tent for the back yard.
I try really hard not to schedule dates during THAT time of the month because I would like to appear sane to my prospective dates. However, if I were in a relationship, wouldn’t that allow the guy I was in the relationship with to see that part of me that scares even me? Dear god, not a freakin chance in hell. Forget it, I am staying single and perhaps will start dating again when this crap passes. Like when I am sixty. But then I would have to date sixty year old men…never mind.
I actually have a date tomorrow. I may have to cancel if this thing on my chin doesn’t go away. Of course, if I just wear something with cleavage, he may never notice.
Perhaps I should have put a note at the top of this bloggy thing to warn men of the menstrual contents.
Well, too late. Bite me, I'm pre-menstrual.
No comments:
Post a Comment