Another Gray Hair

Litter-O-Menace

About six weeks ago my husband purchased an automatic cat litter box for me. It was, perhaps, the most thoughtful gift ever bestowed upon a newly pregnant woman and it didn't come cheap (about $100). Much like little Ralphie did with his Red Rider on Christmas morning, my husband ripped open the box with gusto and immediately (and very uncharacteristically) tossed it in the trash and began assembling the litter box. I didn't know that he had tossed it until Monday afternoon, after the trash pick-up had come and gone. I was not a happy girl.

We both gazed at our new marvel of modern technology in wonder as he did the honors, pressing the green button to watch the box rake the litter, pick up any refuse (there wasn't any yet) and toss it neatly into the plastic bag. It was a thing of beauty. A thing of beauty that didn't work worth a darn. Our eldest cat, Dickens, drinks more ounces of water a day than me. I've theorized that he is a diabetic but I'm much too afraid of the bills and medical regimen that will follow to actually get a diagnosis, plus it's his only symptom. His excessive water drinking causes him to, surprise!, pee excessively. He pees in absurd quantities a ridiculous number of times per day. The Litter-O-Matic was no match for Dicken's bladder. That poor motor can't even handle one pee pile from good ol' Dickens. The motor runs and runs and the rake goes back and forth again and again but, try as it may, it can't scoop up the ginormous pile o' pee.

Our Litter-O-Matic was a lemon and it needed to be returned but we had a problem. We had a receipt (thanks to your's truly) but no box. I sent my husband to the store with strict instructions to demand a refund and he returned with a new Litter-O-Matic, minus the box. My poor husband, filled with remorse about his impulsive choice to toss the box, is down in the basement as I write this, doing his best to will the second Litter-O-Matic to work. He's tried every brand of clumping litter, worked on the motor, spent endless hours watching it and he still will not give up. Six weeks, people. SIX WEEKS! I wonder if there is a support group for people like him, the "My Litter-O-Matic Can't Handle My Cat's Pee 12-Step Program."

Faux Guitar Prowess

How do you celebrate your patriotism? Me, I spend the day with good friends on the water fearing brain-eating amoebas and drowning my fears in Bud Light. Then, I head back to their house where I find myself, in particular my arm, between the bared teeth of two sweet but suddenly very territorial dogs (one of them my own). This incident left me with some nasty teeth marks in my arm and the need to recall the date of my last tetanus shot, which if memory serves me right, was 1992. Off to the emergency room we went.

Thankfully, there wasn't a soul in the waiting room and, hot damn!, Jeopardy was on. Jacquelyn kicked some butt in the country music category during the double Jeopardy round while I had a little visit with Dr. McDreamy. He cleaned my wound, shot me up with a tetanus vaccination, wrote me a script for some pain pills and antibiotics, and sent me on my way. I spent the next two days with my wrist wrapped in guaze and tape, looking like someone who had made a half-assed attempt at suicide.

All was not lost as Jacquelyn and I got back to her house in time to enjoy some delicious ribs and the Hale/Byrne Firework Spectacular (another blog for another day). During this time my son uttered these words several times with elaborate body gesturing, "This is the best night of my life!" It was A-freakin'-dorable and me and my dog bite injury (pity party anyone?) ate it up with a spoon. The grownups closed the night with a little Guitar Hero on the Byrne's Wii. I thought I would rocked the house but I was terrible, garnishing the title of, "The worst Wii player we have ever seen" by the Byrne Family. Go me! I have been singing, "Dream Police," a song that I only mildly enjoyed to begin with ever since.

My next mission: buying a Wii and Guitar Hero of my own to prove my prowess on a faux guitar. After all, what is a 33 year old mother without faux guitar prowess?

Chihuahua Tasering in the ‘Hood

I got a check from the City of Cleveland yesterday for $25. They actually reimbursed me for the cost of my dog because I brought proof of his neutering to the Animal Control office. Talk about a deal. The Dud was free, plus I get 40 or 50% off of his veterinary care because he is a rescue dog. It blows my mind that there  are stores out there that offer financing for purchasing a dog. Financing! A weird, bassetty mutt at the local shelter beats the heck out of a $900 Yorkie in a sweater. Come on! Dudley could wipe the floor with some pedigreed Yorkie. Puh-lease!

Speaking of vicious dogs, we took a family walk in our 'hood last night and came upon several varieties of scary canines including, but not limited to:

• A pit bull with a tumor on his face that makes him look like the scary guy from Goonies who wanted a Baby Ruth so desperately.
• A boxer tied to a precarious looking stake, barking aggressively at us.
• A Rottweiler tied to a similar stake in the same yard barking even more aggressively at us.
• A leash-less Chihuahua who cracked me up but, nonetheless made my ankles a bit nervous with his throaty barks and bared teeth.
• A leash less German Shepherd the size of Texas who followed us for the length of two yards along with his side-kick, a yellow lab the size of Arkansas, barking at us with his ears back and his hackles up.

I remembered, after the encounter with Cujo and his sidekick, why we drive 2 miles to a local park to take our walks. I've got two options:

1. Invest in a tazer
2. Drive the four miles round trip for our walks

I think the kids might be permanently scarred if they saw me taze the Chihuahua so I better stick with option 2.

Monday's Irony

And, for your Monday afternoon, some humor in the Hale house...

I present to you the very definition of ironic: