Read Nora’s column LIfe Face First here!
philosophermouseofth… on Pillow Hog Laura Smith on Pillow Hog Babs Curran on Of Veterinarians and Oven…
Top Posts & Pages
- 30 Days of Photography II
- Animals. But Mostly Cats
- Blog Love
- Door In Face Public Service Announcements
- Exercise is Stupid
- Funny Cat Photos
- Life Face First
- No Boys Allowed
- Snarkiness In Public Places
- Super Funny
- The Pain of Fashion
- Things People Do That Make Me Hate People
- Web Stuff I Like
- While With My Husband
At three a.m. I stirred. A stiff muscle in my leg wanted me to roll over. I turned to my left but halfway there my face hit something warm and fluffy. My cat, Seti, was hogging my pillow. I sat up and looked at him. He was so cute curled in a ball. He had one tiny, black paw over his eyes to block out the light from the alarm clock. I smiled at him. I didn’t want to disturb his sleep so I moved to the right and left him alone. I drifted back to sleep.
Three thirty and I was awakened by a stiff neck. I groaned. Something furry was wrapped around my head. I sat up again. Seti was stretched over the whole of my pillow taking up the top half. I rubbed my neck. He wasn’t as cute as he had been earlier. I scooped him up and moved him to the foot of the bed. I lay back down.
Seti walked back up the bed and curled up again on my pillow. I pushed him off. He walked over my chest to the other side of the bed and returned to the pillow.
I shoved at him. “Get off of my pillow,” I snapped. He rose in a huff and swished his tail. It hit me in the face. I swear he did it on purpose.
“That’s it!” I picked him up and dumped him in the floor. He huffed then jumped back onto the bed.
“Arrrrggggghhhhhhh!” I grabbed my pillow and swung it at him. “Go away!” He stepped calmly out of range and stared at me, waiting for me to return to a recumbent position so he could steal my pillow space. I narrowed my eyes.
My husband, Brian, grunted but didn’t wake up. “Why don’t you sleep on him,” I asked Seti. “He would never know you were there.” Seti sat placidly watching me.
I lay down anticipating his return. A few moments passed and nothing happened. I relaxed and closed my eyes. I had just drifted sweetly into sleep when I felt cat paws on thigh. Seti walked up my chest and plopped down on my face.
I flew straight up gasping for air and dumping Seti in my lap. “Fine! You win. You can have the pillow!” I moved the pillow to the side and lay on the bare mattress. Seti curled on the pillow and quickly fell back asleep.
I slipped into the laundry room as nonchalantly as possible. The cat wasn’t fooled. Ernie watched me warily with his large golden eyes. As quietly as possible, I slid the cat carrier from the shelf. All three of my cats suddenly vanished. It was as though a cat had never lived in our home. I wasn’t worried. It was all part of a typical trip to the vet.
I considered my strategy. I’d lost the element of surprise but I still had time. Our appointment wasn’t for another hour but long experience had taught me that the worst part of the trip to the vet wasn’t the bill or the cat yowling in the car. The worse part of going to the vet was cramming the cat in the carrier.
The first thing I had to do was find Ernie. He’s old and wily but he’s a sucker for food. I went to the kitchen and opened the pantry. On an average day the sound of the opening pantry door brings him running. Today wasn’t an average day and he didn’t fall for my ruse. No matter. I grabbed a can of tuna and headed for the can opener. The stench of canned fish soon permeated our small cottage. No dice. Only the dog appeared boisterous and enthusiastic at the scent.
I sighed reconciling myself to the conclusion that things were about to get nasty. I armed myself with oven mitts and a flashlight.
“Here kitty,” I called as I prowled under beds and behind the T.V. Then, a slight shifting of his considerable weight tipped me off. How he’d managed it I’d never know since the door was only slightly ajar but Ernie had hefted himself to the top of my closet. I reached up for him and immediately recoiled as he lashed out with claws.
I gritted my teeth and said a silent prayer of thanks for the oven mitts and sailed back in. I snagged Ernie as he tried to hide in my purse collection. The mitts protected my hands from the vicious bite he landed on my right hand but they made gripping the cat tricky. My hold was tenuous at best. I dashed to the laundry room eager to get the squirming animal in the crate before he escaped.
I pushed him into the hole but he planted his back feet on either side of the opening and held on. I pried one foot off and then the other. With a wham, I slammed the little door shut. Ernie growled from inside the carrier. Smug, at my success I looked down at my hands and sighed. We were going to need new oven mitts.
I have this friend who writes brilliant puns. By that I mean to say he writes terrible, side splitting, groaning, I-want-to-attack-him-with-a-hammer puns. I really like them. He seems to have an unlimited supply. I thought of a pun the other night and I meant to write it down but I didn’t. When I woke up in the morning I couldn’t remember it and that’s the best pun I’ve thought up in three years. You can see where I’d have buckets of respect for a good punner.
Today is my friend Nonamedufus the punner’s birthday. Some blog friends and I are joining together to wish him a happy one. You see, not only do we like his puns but he’s trapped in Canada where it won’t be summer until 2016. We felt kinda of bad that he has to dig tunnels in the snow just to leave his house so we decided to throw him this virtual party. Virtual works out well since those of us throwing the party live all over the world and I’m allergic to snow and cannot go to Canada to wish him a happy birthday in person.
If you enjoy puns or just a good laugh please visit Noname’s blog, Nonamedufus. And if you want to keep on partying, stroll on over to my buddy Cheryl’s blog, Deckside Thoughts. She’s the hostess of this shindig and you can find links to all the posts honoring Noname’s birthday there.
Happy birthday, John Nonamedufus. Thanks for making me laugh and for sharing excellent taste in music.
My best friend Lexi gripped my arm. “Don’t go out there,” she said. “It will be the end of you for sure.”
I knew she was right but I’m stubborn. “I can do it. I’ve been training for this.” I patted her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be ok.” I shrugged her off and headed for the door.
“Nora, no!” She lunged at me, threw her arms around my waist and dragged me back into the room. “You don’t know what you’re doing. I know you’ve been training but you’re not ready. You have to live with the decision you make.”
I turned to face her, sighing. “Lexi, we’ve been over this. I’ve done Booty Butt Crunch, Ballet Bar Buster, Ab Agony Explosion and I’m running my first half marathon next week. I can do this. I am ready.”
She hugged me, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “Good luck,” she whispered. “I love you.”
I turned, confident with her blessing and headed into the bikini department.
Ah, swimming season, that magical time of year when women over the age of 18 are faced with a choice: one piece or two? At 34 with a nasty carbohydrate addiction, this choice gets tougher and tougher for me to make. Should I aim for modest or punish the people sunbathing around me?
As Shakespeare might have put it, “To see or not to see, that is the question.” Should I suck in my gut the entire day on the beach or surrender to the Tankini? And since the development of my second rear end, that’s the bit of fat at the top of my thighs but under my actual butt, I’ve begun to wonder if I not only need to cover my mid-section but everything down to my knees as well.
Perhaps we’re a nation too concerned with body image. Perhaps I should let myself, all of myself, be free to experience the sun. Then again, I’ve seen some of you and perhaps we’re not concerned enough with our appearance. I recall one notable day on a Florida beach ruined when I witnessed a bathing suit gasp its final breath, burst and succumb to a watery grave. Oh, if only that woman had considered her options more carefully and made an honest assessment of her body, that old man with cardiac disease might still be alive today.
So here’s to bikini season. Whatever you suit you choose to wear, wear it well and should it cause a heart attack just assume it’s because you’re so stunning and not because you should have chosen the one piece.
I reached for my shampoo bottle. It felt lighter than it should have been. I frowned. No one else should be using my shampoo. It’s special shampoo that makes my otherwise limp and lifeless hair perky, a feat at which all other shampoos have failed. I consider it to be a miracle of science.
The only other inhabitant of my house, my husband Brian, was blessed with thick, wavy hair. It looks like he just flounced out of a salon whether he invests a fortune in product or uses the shampoo provided by a cheap motel. It’s hair wasted on a man.
I stuck my head out of the shower. Brian was at the bathroom counter.
“Have you been using my shampoo,” I asked him.
“Yeah.” He ran a cheap plastic comb through his hair and it grew shinier and fuller. The static that plagued me never paid him a visit. Jerk.
“Don’t use my shampoo. It’s special for my pathetic hair. You can use anything. You don’t need mine. You don’t need my special shampoo,” I knew I sounded hysterical but I couldn’t stop myself.
He grinned at me in the mirror. “Psycho,” he muttered.
I chucked the soap at him. “Never use my shampoo,” I screamed.
“Jeez! What’s wrong with you? Alright, alright. I’ll buy more shampoo.” He ducked out the bathroom tossing the soap over the shower bar as he went.
Later that day we stood in the hair care aisle of a local store.
Brian examined the selections. He could buy the store brand with confidence but he wanted to be picky. “Holy cow that shampoo is expensive,” he said.
“It’s twenty bucks,” I said. I didn’t see what the big deal was.
He gaped like a trout. “That’s a lot of money.”
I glared at him. “That’s how much I spend on my special shampoo that you’ve been poaching,” my tone dared him to complain about the price.
“You spend twenty bucks on shampoo?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “That’s why I keep telling you not to use it! My shampoo is too expensive for your hair!”A man at the end of the aisle stared at me in shock. Then, wisely, he ducked around the corner.
Brian snatched a bottle of three dollar shampoo from the shelf and tossed it in the cart.
The next day his hair was as lively and as vibrant as ever and the threat to my shampoo supply was mercifully eliminated.
If you could travel back in time and ask my five-year-old self what I wanted to be when I grew up I would not have said, “I want to be an aspiring writing who has to work a ‘real job’ to pay my bills while composing my novel, blog and column when I should be sleeping.” I would have said I wanted to be a vet, proof that I’ve gotten dumber as I age.
The road from vet to writer was paved with thousands of career ideas, most of which were suggested by my father. When I’d completed high school, decided against college and was working a part time job, Dad decided it was time to intervene. He suggested that I get a job at the new tire manufacturing plant. When tire production failed to inspire me, he began a program that I would later call “Job of the Week” and he no doubt called “Get Nora out of My House.” Every few days, my father would suggest a practical and wise career path to me. Every suggestion proved two things about my father: he has very good ideas for someone looking for a career but he doesn’t have a clue about what makes me tick.
“Be a real estate agent,” he said. Do they have an award for World’s Crappiest Real Estate agent? If so, I’m a shoe in. “No, no. You don’t want to buy that dumpy place. There isn’t enough room in the closet for your shoes. Are they calling that a back yard? Puh-lease! A hamster couldn’t run a lap back there! And the bathroom doesn’t have a walk-in shower. How are you supposed to get clean? What are you, a barbarian? School system? Screw the kids! You can’t store Prada just anywhere! Fine, but don’t come crying to me when the lack of a dishwasher gives you dish pan hands. I will not be responsible!”
“Accountants make a good living,” Dad mentioned casually over dinner. High school taught me one important thing about math: I do not understand it. “Um, yeah, Mr. Johnson? That paper-thingy you gave me, the one with all the numbers. I was supposed to shred that right? Ha, ha! Just kidding! I totally added up all the columns. From everyone in accounting I want to thank you for the $10,000 raise! Everyone’s worked really hard, I know, but I can’t believe how generous—Mr. Johnson? Mr. Johnson? What are you doing on the floor behind your desk? Um…..crap. Someone dial 911!”
“Nurses are high in demand,” Dad tried again. “Is that guy in room 3 buzzing me a-freaking-gain? Get your own damn popsicle! You’ve got to learn to walk again sometime!”
Dad got desperate. “ Welder?” “And ruin my hair with that mask?” “Mechanic?” “I can’t change my oil. I barely even check my oil.” “Job at Jiffy Lube? At least you’d get your oil changed,” he snapped. Dad was worried he’d not only be stuck living with me and feeding me for the rest of my life but that’d he have to change the oil in my Civic as well.
Eventually, I found a day job I could live with and an outlet for all my creative energies. Dad still doesn’t get the creative part but he does read my column and occasionally my blog. In a way, it’s a sacrifice for him as reading isn’t something he enjoys. Still, his daughter wrote it and it’s made all the sweeter by the fact that she wrote it in her own house while eating her own food.