BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Those of you who have read the “Mahwage” mini-series of blogs here at Brainpan Leakage already know that I was dopamine wonky, tongue-tied, tripping over myself in love with E K the moment I laid eyes on her. What followed, of course, was a study in silliness across a dozen blog entries which chronicled our courtship and wedding. (Click the link if you need to be filled in… Rumor has it they are a good read, in an amusing and sappy sort of way.)

Of course, in order to contain the aforementioned series within a dozen relatively long articles, I had to hit only the really high points. This meant that many other high points that weren’t actually the absolute peaks were left out. Unfortunate, yes, but hey, just think of what would have happened if I let E K do the editing. It would have been: We met. We got married. End of story. She’s very concise, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Frugal too. And that’s what the picture of the dead roses above is all about.

You see, one of the things I left out of the Mahwage blogs was a dozen roses I bought for her Supreme Evilness. As it happens, she likes roses. But, this particular dozen came at a time when we were first flirting with one another and not yet fully involved in the “ripped clothing, lip-locked, knocking everything off the desk to make room” passion that accompanies the initial throes of dating. But, I digress as usual…

The thing is, I purchased for The Evil Redhead a dozen red roses. I know, not exactly subtle, but hey, just one of those things. Problem is,  over half the damn things wilted themselves into corpsification within 36 hours. I’d never seen anything like it. While E K had no problem with this happening – other than the fact that she felt bad because she knew how much roses cost – I did. So, I went to the florist. Unfortunately, this particular florist was not of the stellar quality as the one I now use (true story), so what ended up happening was that I purchased 6 replacement roses and hand delivered them to her evilness.

She was happy, but at the same time not so much. You see, being frugal and such she wasn’t happy that I had apparently spent money on more roses. So, I lied. I told her they were warranty replacement roses.

All was good… Until our relationship truly got underway and she took over my finances. It was then she found out I had actually paid for them. As you would expect, knowing her evilness, scoldings and severe beatings then ensued. I was summarily banned from buying her roses for a number of years, lest I waste money on something that was simply going to die in a few days anyway.

Seriously.

That ban has been since been lifted, of course, but she still prefers that I keep the rose giving to a minimum. So, in keeping with her wishes, Valentine’s Day will take the form of Whisky Glazed Filet Mignon, Alaskan King Crab, and Chocolate Covered Strawberries – straight from Murv’s kitchen.

It’s much safer for me that way…

Happy Martyred Saints Day everyone…

More to come…

Murv

When you have geriatric felines you are going to have problems. That is just how it is.

I’m sure you’ve read some of my other blogs where I’ve gone on about having to give insulin to diabetic cats, or running sub-cutaneous fluids into a fleabag with chronic constipation. You’ve likely even read the blog about – and laughed at the picture of – the hemorrhoid cat. So, I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that I am now lamenting the selective incontinence of one such “kitteh”.

Jasper, or as I like to call him, “the stupid one” – mostly because he’s as dense as a brick – has taken to relieving himself in one corner of our dining room. We stay on top of it, of course. Our house is lived in, not filthy. But, I have to admit, it is a bit of a battle. And, no matter how many chemicals you use to destroy the human detectable odor, the cat can still smell it and returns to that place over and over.

Since I am sequestered away in the office all day, we lock “TSO” and “TFO” (The Fat One) in the basement where the litter boxes are located. Granted, the basement is unfinished so it isn’t exactly plush – which is how E K prefers her dungeon – but, for the kitteh’s sake we do make sure they have their “cat pyramids” and “cat beds” down there. And, since that is where their food dishes are as well, they are all good.

Now, before I get a ration of comments telling me how I need to handle this, or that I am a bad person because I need to take the cat to the vet because he’s trying to tell me he is ill, just put a governor on it and step away from the keyboard. E K and I have been rescuing cats for better than 20 years. We have more than just a little experience in this arena. PLUS, we have, in fact, taken him to the vet. He’s fine. Nothing wrong. No urinary infections, no diabetes, etc. He’s just old and suffering from “I don’t care anymore syndrome.”

So anyway, on with the story. “TSO” will do the same thing in the basement on occasion, meaning he’ll leave a puddle on the concrete floor 10 steps from the litter boxes, just because he can. Fortunately, that is much easier to clean up than the hardwood in the dining room, but I digress.

Just the other day it was raining. Since we live in an old house at the bottom of a hill, in a dip in the road, with all of the property around us sitting higher than us, drainage occurs. See where I’m going with this? When such drainage occurs and the ground is saturated, some seepage also occurs. We don’t get “major flooding” down there, but we get a few puddles and minor streams running toward the floor drain.

On this particular day, the O-spring, fresh off finishing her homework, headed downstairs to take care of the afternoon feline feeding – something that has been added to her list of chores in recent weeks. No more had she gone down into the basement than I heard “Ewwwww! Jasper! That’s disgusting!” Given that I was sitting in the office upstairs doing some work, you know she had to be pretty loud.

The “Ewwws” and scoldings continued for a minute or two, and finally I heard her clomping back up the stairs. The basement door opened, the slammed, and I was greeted with my daughter yelling at me from the bottom of the first floor staircase.

“DADDY! Jasper peed ALL OVER the basement!”

“What do you mean, all over?” I asked.

“He peed EVERYWHERE! There’s only only little places to stand where it’s dry. It’s GROSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”

When I finally stopped laughing I called back to her, “Honey, it’s raining. That’s just water from the basement leaking.”

It was quiet for a moment, then I heard a very calm and perfunctory, “Oh.”

Crisis averted. I wonder what she’s going to do the first time she has to change a diaper?

More to come…

Murv