And Now You Know

Was a good work day today, and I was working along when I got this text from ZB:

Now I know what TSE is.

Me: ???

ZB: Testicular Self Examination

Me: Uh, good to know

ZB: Taking notes was like writing an adult novel

Me: Lucky you!

ZB: You’re supposed to take a bath first so things get loose and saggy

Me: Don’t ever do that while the rest of the family is home

ZB: Fine

Which was, well, par for the course in our house, but still. Then this other thing happened:

Chicken texting: Can you pick my cat up from the vet?  She was barfing blood so I dropped her off at the vets but I don’t get up until after they close.

Me (groggily, in middle of nap): Sure

Hours later: When?

Chicken: Six. I told them her name was Peanut Butter

Me: Why?

Chicken: Because

Me: Whatever

So I get to the vets and ask for Peanut Butter. For the record? The cat’s real name is Mrs. Poopy Butthole, because this cat weighs in excess of 28 lbs and she is too fat to lick her own ass. This is a true story.

“So, Ms. Lane, your cat does NOT have diabetes, not even a little. In fact, from what we can gather, she just has a mild pancreatitis–not food related. Perhaps stress?”

“My daughter is watching her friend’s cat. Perhaps the cat got a little upset that she had to share her food?”

“Yes, of course. Here–what you need to do is go out and buy the cat some Pepcid AC and use this depiller to shove it down her throat. It’ll calm down her acid and she probably will stop vomiting in a reasonable amount of time.”

“That’s a relief. They do laundry at my house.”

“Ha ha. By the way, we love this cat’s name. She’s so cute. And she really does look like Peanut Butter.”

I look at the GINORMOUS FUCKING CAT rolling obsequiously on the table in front of me, and hug her. She bitches “RUDE!” in my face and we understand each other.

“Yeah, she’s adorable.”

“Well bring Peanut Butter by any time. We just love her!”

Mrs. Poopy Butthole screams, “I HATE THESE SUCKY PEOPLE!” in my face.

“I’ll tell my daughter. Pepcid you say?”

“Should work like a charm.”

“Come on, ‘Peanut Butter’. Hop in the crate.”


“She’s a doll!”

“Yeah. Adorable. Truly.” At this point I am unimpressed–it’s seven o’clock, I have to drop the cat off and come home and cook dinner. If this cat wanted to impress me she’d negotiate the two miles to her apartment and ring the doorbell, but it ain’t happening.

I call my son and have him wait for me to pull up. “Why?” he asks.

“Twenty-eight pounds NOT in the crate, Big T. I’m not hauling her up the damned stairs.”

“Okay, fine. Does she have diabetes?”

“Not even a little sugar in her urine.”

“Luckiest cat on the planet.”

“I’m saying.”

I swear, next time I have to pick up this cat, I’m spray-painting “Mrs. Poopy Butthole” on her bright pink cat carrier. I love that cat, but we both know she ain’t no Peanut Butter.

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