You are relaxed...very relaxed...

I got a massage tonight.  It was my first massage in a while.  Oddly enough, it was at a restaurant, in a booth, and only on one side of my body.  The person used her hands, head, and feet, and I was covered in the macaroni and cheese that she had on both hands and her face.  It only lasted for the minute that she took to go from angry I stopped her from banging her spoon on the table to looking at the jolly people in the adjacent booth, but I did close my eyes and felt that familiar "am I being abused or massaged right now" feeling.

Whatever, I'll take it.

Sometimes the best revenge is peeing your pants in timeout.

After about 10 minutes of constant screaming coming from the kids' room, Aaron and I got to hear those five little words that change everything: "Daddy, I had an accident."

Sometimes the best revenge is peeing your pants in timeout.

I didn't realize I was looking for a slogan, but that right there is probably as good as it's going to get.

Why why why?

Why, when you got into bed tonight, was there a wadded-up cupcake wrapper with cake still in it on your lovely damask striped sheet?  Oh, because I did laundry and when I do laundry I empty my pockets.  Why was that in your pocket since you never make cupcakes?  Oh, because we were at a party the other day.  Why do you have a cupcake wrapper with cake in your pocket if you can't remember the last time you ate a cupcake?  Because when we were at that party and Sebastian needed help to get the third cupcake he was reaching for, someone opened it for him halfway and he ate the icing then passed the rest to Audrey who was happily eating that when I realized she needed her nose wiped while I attempted to feel human at a party.

The CORRECT question is really "Why is there a wadded-up cupcake wrapper with half-eaten cake glued together by mucus on your lovely damask striped sheet?"

The correct ANSWER, therefore, is that, while I was registering for a Damask striped sheet set at Macy's several years ago, I was thinking much more about the white dresses and artistic fondant of an idealistic near-future I was planning than the half-eaten cupcakes and snot-covered trash of the longer-term future that would result.  My visionary expectations were way too high and I had no idea that these sheets would be a reminder of how far I had fallen.  Honestly, I should be sleeping on the floor of a barn somewhere until my kids turn 20.

Man vs Cat

To be fair, the cat was under the bed.

She should not have been under the bed.  She is expressly forbidden to be under the bed.  If she is under the bed, she will be there when we go to sleep.  That means that, in the middle of the night, she will be on my bed, pawing at my chest with the claws we never got removed and rarely clip.  Otherwise, she will be at the door, clawing the carpet and whining to get out.  Very recently, she shakes it up by walking across the bed and stopping with her hindquarters directly in front of my face, debating whether she has a purpose on the nightstand and waking me up with her cat-heiny-stench.

Regardless, the cat should not be under the bed.

This evening was certainly not the night to be under the bed.  Aaron has spent the good portion of a week cleaning the house from top to bottom.  We're talking scrub-brush-on-the-baseboards cleaning.  Going-through-all-the-dishes cleaning.  Calling-me-at-work-to-talk-about-cleaning cleaning.  We're moving in three weeks.  Tomorrow is our inspection.  This is reasonable.

Well, Forte decided to run under the bed, immediately after Aaron gave her a look.  This look held all the spilled milk and scattered toys of a long weekend he had to spend with two toddlers.  The man was in NO mood.  The cat should have realized that, given the situation, Aaron was certainly in no mood for a cat who poops when chased to run under the bed.

First, let's talk about how completely unevolved housecats have become that any member of the species might poop when chased.  Leaving a trail like that when threatened is completely counter-productive.  That is what living inside with no natural predators will do to a gene pool.  Fortunately, thanks to a simple surgery a few years back, Forte has what my dad would describe as "no pride of pedigree and no hope for progeny."  We, meanwhile, have modified our lives by not chasing this cat and are convincing the kids to do the same.

Anyway, the cat was intent on being under the bed and Aaron was intent on the cat NOT being under it.  There was only one way this could end.  The cat would be extracted, there would be I'm-being-chased poop far under the bed, the bedroom would no longer be inspectable, and we would smell phantom cat poop long after we Febrezed the crap out of the area (pun intended).  Regardless, Aaron's point would be made.

I stood paralyzed, watching this situation unfold, knowing that stepping in would not unstink the room or de-escalate either party but, more importantly, that if I stepped in, I would have to remove the cat myself and that wasn't going to work out.  See, I can be sympathetic to my husband when he gets scratched.  I can keep my mouth shut and even clean up cat poop in the aftermath, but there was no way I was going to get scratched AND pooped on AND deny Aaron the satisfaction of forcing the cat to do exactly what he said.  I can't make a drink to fix the kind of bruised pride that would cause.  Nor could I satisfactorily remove the fear poop from my arms.  Yuck.  So I let him make his point.

Now what was that point, exactly?  Something about dogs being better than cats.  About the house needing to be clean for tomorrow.  About affectionate pets that listen to their owners instead of pooping under beds (okay I totally get that).  I don't know.

About five minutes later, I saw Aaron holding the cat, staring into her narrowed eyes and holding his breath to avoid the smell.  He was trying to be affectionate.  She was probably trying not to poop.  I realized something: sometimes you just have to embrace a moment of crazy as inevitable.  People will yell, cats will poop, the room will need to be cleaned.  There are no winners, only points to be made by both parties.

Things seem to have gone back to normal in the last 45 minutes.  The bedroom is clean and ready for inspection.  Aaron is relaxed, watching a show on TV.  From what I understand, Forte is in the corner behind my chair, right now, looking for an opportunity to get under the bed.

I'm trying not to inhale too deeply.