the image of Jesus is baked into my potato chip…

They say that artists are melancholy by nature…and I tend to agree that they can be moody, gloomy, and apathetic on occasion.  Yet this seems to be precisely the emotional well from which their creativity springs.Stands to reason: the more emotionally jacked- up an artist, the more
mind-blowing is the art they create.

My cat is approximately 16 years old. Geriatric in the kitty world. One of his distinguishing characteristics is that he has a markedly flat skull due to being accidently trod upon as a kitten by a large man wearing boots.   He survived, obviously, but I like to think that he has always been so sweet-natured and laid back because he is slightly mentally damaged.  He’s much like a “special friend” of the feline variety. This traumatic head-stomping while still in the stage of life when cranial seams are still insecurely floating loosely about the brain in cerebral fluid, and just beginning to stitch themselves together has obviously had an impact on him.  He acts strangely at times, as I suppose all pets do, but as I observe him getting older and older…his behavior is becoming most oppositional and defiant.   Crotchety old poot.

The last few years, I have made concessions due to his age…thinking him unable to control his bladder.  Yet have still grown increasingly frustrated with his apparent ‘inability’ to urinate in the correct place.  And have angrily jerked up and done away with the carpet in several rooms because of it. (I realize the dog played a part in that too, but cat pee smells WAY worse. Remind me why I love animals again?)  Actually, the amount of dog pee versus cat pee was pretty comparable …it’s almost as if they were in an ongoing volley to mark their territory.  But while they continued to vindictively piss about the house, I was the only one on the losing end of that battle. Instead of the continual ineffective pet formula products and exhaustive ‘spot’ cleaning and candles and plug ins and whatnot…I finally took extreme action and removed the temptation altogether. Since the majority of the carpet was removed, and there was no longer an absorbant floor surface in which to soak his lasting scent …the cat has reluctantly and grudgingly surrendered, and is back to using the litter box again.

All this talk of pee to get around to the point of my post.  Since he now is engaging in pee-appropriate behavior in his box, I try to encourage him to continue by promptly removing all pee-clumps and other waste ASAP.  A cat is finicky and tempermental enough without baiting him and egging him on to start saturating the bed and the couch and all other fabric covered items in the house.  Anyway, I think that his age is causing prostate issues or something, and I’ve noticed that he pees quite A LOT.  I am on diligent and constant litter box patrol in order to keep up with him.

I’m not sure if he is just bored, or perhaps his repressed Pollock or Van Gogh side is coming to the surface in his old age – but he appears to be making actual ART with his urine lately. I’m totally serious when I say that these two images are completely ofthe cat’s doing.  I did not alter them one bit. I swear.  (I have, however, supplied the images that I believe he was desperately trying to communicate to me. 😉

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He seems to have combined his ‘special-ness’ with the unexplained expressions of a melancholy artist.  Sad, yet profound.  I’m beginning to suspect
that he isn’t the carefree, happy kitty that I thought he was….

I know.  It’s a gross medium to use…but despite the implied malodorous factor, it is quite inventive for a creature who has no opposable thumbs.

The Chronic

No.

I’m not talking about the marijuana…it’s another type of ‘grass’ altogether that is on my mind- constantly.  Well, it’s chronically all up in my face, actually.   I just love a good play on words.  Anybody want to take a guess as to what exactly THIS is? :

That is correct.  It’s Easter basket “grass”.  And let me just tell you- it is deceptively immortal.  Durable.  Relentless. Tenacious.  Damn near eternal.  It’s physical make-up is undeniably as hardy and resilient as they come.  If Darwin were to describe it, it somehow has an impossible genetic slant on humankind, and will long outlive us AND the Apocalypse.  It has been – what? – three months since Easter.  And even more shocking, I believe that this particular iridescent shade of Easter grass was in The Child’s sugar- laden basket from 2010.  So make that 15 months.

I cannot get rid of it.  It is more persistent than a thrice-fumigated roach infestation problem in a house on Hoarders.  Where you see ONE piece of Easter grass – there are literally THOUSANDS of flimsy narrow slivers of transparent plastic still lurking about.  I have swept, vacuumed, and practically combed all the floors in my home in an attempt to rid us of it. I have mainly concrete floors and due to the iridescent hue of this particular kind of grass, it is almost impossible to see with the naked eye.  It is too lightweight to effectively be vacuumed up, or swept into a neat pile… and can often undetectably resist the broom bristles altogether in a vindictive manner.  I imagine it mocks my every attempt to capture it all.

I tend to tread barefoot in the house – and every flippin day I step on at least one piece of it.  It makes an unsettling ‘crunch’ noise against the concrete, and elicits a few whispered, but vehement, cuss words from me.  At times, it sticks to the bottom of said barefoot feet, especially when said barefoot feet are slightly sweaty.  I am forever picking up strays off the floor, throwing them carefully away (sometimes they float away from the trash in midair if I foolishly turn away too quickly with premature confidence.)  I have collected them from the lint tray in the dryer and even from the bathtub…but they just don’t STOP.  I cannot remember a more lingering domestic dilemma.

I once complained that the Seen-On-TV Aqua Dots and Light Brite pegs would be the death of me…but this Easter Grass is a formidable competitor for the top slot of Things-That-Make-Me-Want-to-Punch-Babies list. (I’m totally kidding about that by the way.  I’ve never punched a baby and don’t plan to.)  I am not quite sure how this overwhelming invasion has remained prevalent for such an extended period of time.  I suspect that, like bunnies, this Easter accompaniment feverishly reproduces in the laundry hamper at night.  Or under The Child’s bed – musty, spooky location that it is- it simply begs to be the obvious mating scene, or Easter Grass Egg Laying spot, if I had to pick one.

This chronic irritation in the home (where one idiotically expects to have serenity, calm, and comfort) does NOT a happy and content self make.  Mark my ever-loving words – if Grammie so much as offers to present The Child with another Easter Grass filled basket next year, I will grab it… drive to a deserted farm-to-market road…at night…and toss the damn thing out the car window. OR, I will seal it securely in a black heavy duty 50 gallon drum trash bag… and leave it in direct sunlight…in GRAMMIES back alley, not mine… so that it internally heats up to at least 130 degrees… for 48 to 72 hours… in order to completely kill off all of its uncanny, inanimate object reproducing abilities.  And then I will toss it in a dumpster five miles away.  Yeaaay verily.  So let it be written, so let it be done.

 

flushed away

The Child thought she was being funny when she ran in from the bathroom last night, breathless, saying that the toilet was “flooding”.  When we literally RAN to take care of it, she stood behind us…laughing.  There was no flood.  But there would be swift retribution for this attention-seeking prank.  The Boyfriend and I looked at each other, exchanged a few words…and then we tackled her.  She was screaming and laughing while trying to get away.  She was then suspended by her feet, midair, over said “flooding” toilet.  The screams turned shrill and squeaky, and almost panicky in nature.  But believe you me, she was loving every minute of whatever was about to happen.  We asked if she’d ever heard of a “Swirly”…and she said no.  Well.  Now she knows.

Before someone points excitedly, and accuses us of child cruelty, allow me to point out that I was on the receiving end of many a Swirly in my day.  And just like I somehow survived my childhood with no hand sanitizer, or child proofing cabinet locks, or electrical outlet covers, or wall-latching systems that prevent a toddler from being crushed by the very dresser they tried to climb… I survived having my head dunked in a toilet (while it flushed) a few times by my older brother.  I might have even deserved it!  I assure all of you alarmists out there that The Child was not traumatized…in fact, she was laughing hysterically and chasing us around while slinging her hair, attempting to fling potty-water all over us.  And then she demanded that we not only do it again, but video the reenactment so that she could post it on YouTube.