The Cat Toy Story

This little story goes out to Mild Mannered Missionary Mary, whose lingerie habits I’ve made known to the blogosphere. Enjoy for a change, Mary, my own humiliation in the intimates department.

In honor of New Year’s Eve, here it is, The Cat Toy Story.

Those of you who’ve read my “Anyone Lost Their Panties” entry, know that I’m a practical girl when it comes to undergarments. It may surprise you to discover that I occasionally spend more on underwear than a measly $6.99 for a three pack of panties. Yes, you got it, only on special occasions.

Last Christmas, I was shopping at Target when I spotted a snazzy little black number in their pajama section. I liked it, but I was on a mission for Christmas presents, so I put myself back on course and steered away from temptation.

Now for Christmas that year, I decided to do something a little different. You see, our anniversary is January 16th, so I booked a room at a B&B in Estes Park where Kory and I honeymooned. I wrapped up the pertinent information and stuck it under the tree as a gift for Kory.

A few days after Christmas, I was thinking about our upcoming getaway, and I remembered the black lace nightie at Target. I was out shopping, so I took the opportunity to pick it up, expecting that it would be marked down for the after Christmas sales.

Let me stop a moment and fill in a little back story. We had a special feline guest in our house this time last year. Mom’s editor was out of town for the holidays and had asked us to cat sit for Easy, a very fun and sweet-tempered kitty. We loved playing with Easy but somehow managed to misplace one of her cat toys, a long stick thing with feathers and a bell attached to the end. I suspect one of the boys absconded with it, thinking it was some sort of modified light saber.

While I was at Target, picking up my skivvies, I remembered we owed Easy a new toy, so I swung over to the pet section and picked up a toy pretty much like the old one.

Now I know all of you would have the good sense to throw some other things in your cart—garbage bags, laundry soap, Scooby Doo band-aids—whatever. I can be painfully clueless about these things.

And so it is that I arrived at the check out lane with a black lace baby doll and a long, feathered, whip-like cat toy . . . on New Year’s Eve. I put my items on the conveyor belt and then the reality of the situation hit me. But what could I do? Explain to the clerk that the items were totally separate and had no correlation whatsoever? Like she woulda believed me.

“Sure, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

So, this year my second New Year’s resolution (the first was not to de-bone so much as a chicken breast for not only the year but the rest of my life—but that’s another story) is to be just slightly more aware of the world around me in hopes that I will not end up--flushed crimson at the Target check out--paying for a black lace negligee (on sale!) and a feathered cat toy.

Have a Cow, Man

We bought a cow today. Well, half of a cow. Half of a dead cow—in the form of 450 pounds of meat. Being the sick puppy that I am, I named our half a dead cow Herbert.

We had to drive to Kansas (otherwise known as Falcon to us citified Colorado Springians) to pick up Herbert. The boys were somewhat fascinated and horrified at the prospect of bringing home half a cow in our family van. Monkey insisted that he did not want half a cow, and Chunky was adamant that we get the front half of the cow. Who knows why? Better looking?

As it turns out, both boys fell asleep on the way out to the Great Plains, and only Monkey woke up for the purchasing and loading of Herbert. I wish I could have slept through the process like Chunky did. I’m a bit sensitive to smells, and the minute I walked into the what-do-you-call-it—butchershop/pre-fab garage—I knew I couldn’t stay to watch the details. It seems Herbert’s cousin had recently shared in Herbert’s fate. That’s right, fresh hamburger anyone?

In case anyone is thinking that Herbert was one of those cows who “fell off the truck,” rest assured that he was in fact a pampered bovine, even earning the term organic upon his death.

We drove back to the Springs with Herbert in the trunk and ran through Wendy’s because it was late, and Herbert was still frozen. Once we got home, Kory faced the prospect of cramming Herbert into our freezer in the garage. Herbert didn’t fit. We stuffed paper-wrapped T-bones and tip roasts into the nooks and crannies of our indoor fridges and then called some friends. When their answering machine picked up, I whispered, “I need to know if you have a large amount of freezer space, and I need you not to ask any questions.”

What’s the sense in having friends if you can’t mess with them once in awhile?

So now Herbert rests in various locations throughout our city. Half of him went to live with our friends, the Woodhouses. I can’t imagine a warmer and kinder family for Herbert, or rather, that half of him. Some of him is just a mile or so down the road with our friends, the Pintos. I wonder if they’ll mind if we get a craving for sirloin in the middle of the night and pop on over to visit old Herb?

And of course, we have a couple freezers full and a few bits thawing here. The boys quickly overcame their trepidation regarding the unusual way in which Herbert came to join our family. They are now quite eager to eat him. Anybody have any good beef recipes?