My cat has kitty breath. I know this because he’s sitting on the arm of the couch leaning against my arm, periodically meowing in his beseeching little kitten voice. He’s not a kitten anymore. In fact, he’s five years old and freakin’ huge. But when he addresses his mother (me), he uses a different voice — the same one he used when he was little and afraid something was going to get him. Nothing ever did.
He doesn’t like it when I sit the computer in my lap and type. In fact, he pretty much hates the computer on principle. Although it is equipped with rubber feet, he tries diligently to push it off the counter when I put it on the charger at night. And when he finally gives up on attempting to move it, he lays down on it, determined that if it will not die, then at least I won’t have access to it.
I like his smarts. When I’m not paying attention to him, he walks around doing all the things he’s not supposed to until I get up with the water bottle and chase him around the house. Once I’ve sprayed him, he follows me back to my chair and gets on my lap before I have the chance to put anything else there. Sonny is better at recognizing the worried tone in my voice than any dog I’ve ever had. If I’m looking for him and can’t find him, he comes to my side as soon as I call, sometimes still yawning and stretching from his nap. When we see one another, I say “there you are,” and he meows in response as if to say “hell yes I am, crazy woman.” Sometimes I think he just talks to hear himself talk, much like his mother. We spend an inordinate amount of time meowing back and forth at one another, a pastime that my husband finds more amusing than he probably should.
Sonny, I think, is a lot of the reason why I ended up married to Hubby. Aside from me, there is no one else on the planet besides him that my smart and evil kitty can stand. Sonny moves from one of our laps to the other while we sit in front of the television; he greets us both when we come home; and he walks across both of our chests at night when we’re going to sleep. Sonny and I agreed on Hubby, otherwise I’d probably still be single.
Kitty Boy might be evil (and unlikable as far as other people are concerned), but he has undeniable good taste.
If you were sitting in my living room right now and we were having coffee, it would no doubt occur to you to wonder exactly how long I stay in my pajama pants on an average day. You might even think about asking me directly, because right now it’s like one in the afternoon and to most of the world, my comfy clothes might look a lot like clinical depression. You’re probably a really caring and nurturing soul and I appreciate that, but before you jump on the bandwagon, I can assure you that everything’s all right. I’ve had a shower today. Hell, I’ve even shaved my legs and put on moisturizer. I am not depressed. If I was, my mom (whose name would have been either Frank or Earnest if she were a man) would’ve called me out on it like two seconds after it started, my cats would’ve been really pissed about their dirty litter boxes, and my husband and step-kids would’ve wanted to know where the hell their supper was, and that would’ve been that. So again, I’m not depressed. But admittedly, there are a few things contributing to the plethora of pajama pants in my possession as well as the frequency with which I wear them.
- I keep my house cold enough (even in the summer) that most people need an afghan to be comfortable. (This is not at all inconvenient because I actually MAKE AFGHANS, so I have plenty and I like to share.) Since I’m either on the computer or crocheting, I can’t really cover up; the pajama bottoms mean that I don’t have to.
- I have a cat who barely lands on the nice side of satanic. If I don’t wear pants that he likes to sleep on (fuzzy soft pajama bottoms), he’ll scratch my legs until I reconsider my choice. The scratching is, of course, unintentional. (Yeah.)
- I’m going through a bit of a heavy phase at the moment, brought on by the purchase of Oreos, ice cream, and potato chips every week for the past six months. The pajama bottoms are among the few articles of clothing I own that still fit. The way I see it, folks should be grateful I’m wearing pants at all.
Probably none of these explanations is really good enough for you, and I have to admit that even I occasionally find my attire appalling and problematic. Mostly, these moments occur in the presence of other people. For example, there are times when I have felt truly and unfairly judged by the UPS guy. And we’re not even going to talk about the visiting 12-year-old friends of my step-son. Except to say that those kids really need to work on keeping every thought they have from crossing their faces.
Thankfully, I can at least say that in my house, I am not alone in my preference of pajama bottoms. To illustrate: last night, step-daughter and I returned from an afternoon out with my mom. As she walked through the door, she was tweeting about taking off her makeup, putting on pajamas and binge watching Supernatural. By the time she finished typing, I’d already re-donned my fuzzy ‘jammy pants from earlier in the day, grabbed the Chromebook, and started a cup of coffee. By the time my coffee was done, she had on her own fuzzy pants. We could only smile at one another as we grabbed various bags of unhealthy food and seriously contemplated having frozen pizza for supper for the second night in a row. In the end, we couldn’t be bothered to wait for the oven to preheat and we ate whatever we could find that took even less effort than that. (Parenting goals!)
So, if you were sitting here right now drinking coffee with me, it would probably occur to you that I’m not depressed so much as I’m an obnoxious teenager in a 40-some-year-old squishy body. And I couldn’t really argue with you there. Not at all.
I have five books going at the moment. The majority of them are decent enough, and yet whenever I park my ass on the couch, I don’t end up reading a single one of them. My excuses are varied and only occasionally acceptable even to me:
- I have a cat on my lap who won’t stop nosing the Kindle.
- I have this pretty new Chromebook and I need to download ALL THE APPS and create ALL THE BOOKMARKS because I’ve never had one of these machines before and OHMYGOD I love it so much.
- I’m writing on the internet again and sweetbabyjesus, I have to write on the internet again right now.
- I have rolls and rolls and ROLLS of yarn pressed against my left leg and a 10-ton half-finished scrap afghan draped across my lap that I must work on RIGHT NOW because otherwise it’s just going to sit there forever and eventually suffocate me (and the cat).
- Truly, I have to watch the next episode of The West Wing, otherwise I’ll never finish, and I’d like to start over again with the pilot (for the twelfth time) by next week at the latest.
- The teenager(s) won’t stop talking to me long enough for me to read two sentences in a row. (Actually, I wouldn’t mind so much if he was talking. He’s laughing neurotically and making me watch stupid YouTube videos…what is it with these kids and their ridiculous videos?)
- I have to start supper/laundry/cleaning the bathroom. (Doesn’t that one sound responsible? I like that one.)
- If I read, I’ll just want to drink tea and eat way too many Sixlets, and I’m really trying to stop being a fat ass by Christmas.
- I can’t figure out what I’m in the mood for. What the hell do I want? Should I reread Harry Potter or The World According to Garp for the tenth time, or should I finish Hillbilly Elegy or the third Diana Gabaldon (which you can go ahead and shame me for because I’m already ashamed anyway)?
There are too many damned options and too many damned distractions and I’m overwhelmed by my way-too-lofty Goodreads reading goal for the year.
I think I’m just going to go to bed.