Florida and the Dreaded No-See-Um

Last week I returned from a quickie trip to Florida to visit good friends. They have a place down in Palm Beach Gardens and enticed me with a few magic words. You know the ones – Beach. Sun. Ocean. Oh, and let’s not forget that happy word: Shopping.

I was tempted, but not enough to pack my bags quite yet.

But when they uttered the ever-magical phrase, no dog-walking required, I couldn’t find a flight fast enough.

Did I miss Vince and Maggie Minx and Twinks and Jinx while I was gone? Oh, you betcha – especially Vince. But it was nice to have a few days of downtime. I didn’t have to do a single load of laundry. I didn’t have to worry about doggie poo bags. And best of all, I didn’t have to figure out what to fix for dinner or purchase the fixings or, well, do the actual fixing.

The most taxing thing I had to do was decide which bottle of wine to open for happy hour.

That’s my kind of chore.

I was gone just long enough to recharge my batteries and I left Florida just before Susan and Jeffy rescinded the Welcome mat.

I always remember my mom telling me that guests, like fish, start to smell after three days. Which conjured up a horrible image and I almost missed her point. And while my mother never pretended to be the author of that quote, she said it was a good philosophy to have about being a welcomed guest. Or maybe about being a guest who would be welcomed back.

Of course, with any good battery recharging getaway, there is always the chance of a downside. Like missing your connection. Or getting dragged off an airplane (!) Or arriving just as monsoon season hits.

Fortunately, none of those things happened. No, the worst thing that happened to me was the attack of the dreaded no-see-um. Aptly named.

Because I didn’t see-um.

But my ankles and wrists looked as though I had caught the plague. I had little red welts all over me and, boy, did they itch! For such a little bug, no-see-um bites sure do pack an itchy punch.

Sadly, I realized too late what was happening and by the time I finally applied a little bug spray to my exposed parts, the damage had already been done.

But the good news was that it WAS the last day of my visit and I was heading back home to Ohio’s unpredictable weather. Which meant that all those little red welts would mostly likely be hidden under layers of clothing and no one would be forced to take a cautious step away from me out of fear of catching whatever contagious virus I had.

And even better news is that my husband had a magical fix for my bug bites much like the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding had with his bottle of Windex.

Except Vince’s potion is Oil of Oregano. Have you heard of this stuff? Let me just say…it stiiiiiinks! I mean, it seriously stinks.

Vince has been using Oil of Oregano for pretty much everything the past couple years. He pats it on his face. He uses it as an antibiotic. I think he even gargles with the stuff, but don’t quote me on that. He may have stopped that practice when I refused to kiss him goodnight because of the smell.

But I’ve gotta give the man his due – he applied that oil of oregano to my no-see-um bites and they never itched again – not even once. Which is amazing because I’m the kind of person who will hang on to an itchy bug bite far longer than the average human.

So anyway. I had a wonderful visit with my friends and I did, indeed, recharge my batteries. So I’m back to walking the dog and carrying doggie poo bags. And I’m back to figuring out what to fix for dinner. But it all seems a little less taxing.

Best of all, I’m back at home with my Vince. Where I should be.

And, happily, those dreaded  no-see-ums didn’t follow me back to Ohio.

Twinks and Jinx: True Creatures of Habit

I don’t think my cats, Twinks and Jinx, are markedly different than most other cats. They’re not purebred felines. They don’t possess any skills worthy of YouTube. And while I think they are adorable, their little faces aren’t expressive enough to become the next Big Thing à la the Grumpy Cat.

But they amuse me, nonetheless.

They have habits that are now absolute rules in the house. Like, for instance, I cannot get up first thing in the morning and stumble over to the Keurig to brew myself some eye-opening coffee. 

Instead, replenishing their food bowls is the first order of business. They act as if they haven't eaten for days - even if there is still food in their bowls. And God forbid  

there is a little circle of emptiness in the middle of the bowl. They will meow as if I’m purposely starving them.

The next thing I have to do is refill their water bowls with fresh water. They will saunter over to it, look at it and then look up at me with an almost disdainful look as if to say, "Hey, lady, what's with the day-old water, here? We need fresh water. Immediately! And don't give us any of that tap stuff, either!"

Once that task has been fulfilled, then – and only then – am I allowed to make myself a cup of coffee.

For the past year or so, I have been carrying my coffee to the living room where I sit on the loveseat and contemplate life. Well, mostly I contemplate the inside of my eyelids and wonder when the caffeine will finally hit my bloodstream. But this habit helps me become a little more civilized and ready for the day. Clearly, the Grumpy Cat and I have much in common first thing in the morning.

Eventually, Vince gets up, brews his own cup of coffee, and joins me for a few moments of quiet before we begin our day.

That is, until Twinks decided that having captive humans available to give her some kitty love was a great idea. She will leap up on the back of the couch and bonk her furry little head against Vince’s to let him know that the kitty petting is about to commence.

Then she climbs down to the arm of the loveseat and waits. Sure enough, Vince starts petting her and she starts purring. This only stops when either (a) Vince tries to move her to the seat of the couch in order to have easier access, which she doesn’t like because it wasn’t her idea or (b) she has had enough kitty attention and jumps down to the floor to give herself a bath.

I can’t decide if I’ve trained our cats – or our cats have trained me. I suspect the latter. Case in point: when we moved into our new house, I brought the treats canister and a bag of treats down to our lower level where the TV is. One night, after we turned off the news and before we headed upstairs to bed, I gave them a handful of treats.

It wasn’t long before they expected this habit to continue. And by “wasn’t long before,” I mean immediately. And by “expected,” I mean demanded.

Since then, the absolute second the television goes silent, they are on high alert meowing and squeaking to let me know it’s time for their treats. It doesn’t matter if we’re fast forwarding through the commercials or simply muting the television, whenever they hear silence, Twinks and Jinx will move to their assigned “spots” to await their treats.

The other day, the cats were on the floor taking their scheduled 6 p.m. kitty siesta and I was watching a program on TV. I accidentally hit the power button on the remote, which of course immediately silenced the TV. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cats snap awake. They swiveled their little heads to look at the TV and then – in unison, no less – swiveled back to look at me. And then they moved to their spots. Twinks meowed and Jinx squeaked to let me know it was Treat Time. It was like a well-choreographed routine.

I couldn’t help it – I started to laugh.

And, believe, me, I wanted to give them some treats for that stellar performance, but I resisted. Why?

Because I really don’t want to start the 6 p.m. Treat Time habit. This is partly because our Treats budget would go up exponentially.

But mostly it’s because I think they’ve got me trained enough already.

Kitty WrestleMania 2013

So Twinks and Jinx have taken over our Jacuzzi bathtub as their personal wrestling ring.  They hop in there in the morning while I’m brushing my teeth and proceed to tackle each other in the hopes of being crowned Kitty Champion of the World.  Or, at very least, Kitty Champion of the House.

Oh, it starts out innocently enough with the first cat to stake out a ringside seat in the tub watching me as I apply moisturizer and roll on some Arrid Extra Dry. But then the other one saunters into the bathroom acting like she is merely checking my progress and making sure I’m on schedule. Then suddenly she takes a flying leap into the tub and lands on top of the other one with a resounding “thud.”

And then Kitty WrestleMania 2013 ensues.

If I haven’t yet retrieved my glasses from my nightstand, I can only hear the jangling and twinkling of the bells on their collars as they roll around in the spacious tub.  If I look over at them, I can only see a blurry tangle of black and white fur.  Since they’re both black and white cats, it’s sort of hard to tell who is winning. 

This morning Twinks was the aggressor, although that is not always the case. Some mornings Jinx gives as good a she gets.

If I’m awake enough, I find it amusing. I start a running dialogue in my head:

“Laaadddiiiees and Gentlemennnnn!  In this corner, wearing the purple jewel-encrusted collar and weighing in at 11 pounds, 1 ounce, is Jinky-‘Killer-is-My-Middle-Name’-Jinx. And in this corner, wearing the sparkly hot pink collar and weighing in at 10 lbs 5 ounces, is Twinkle-‘Don’t-let-the-sissy-name-fool-you’-Belle.”

Once in a while, they act all innocent and lie down together and give each other a bath. Yeah, like they’re fooling me. This display of sisterly affection lasts all of 2.3 seconds before one of them has the other in a headlock.

I used to chastise them and tell them it was not the proper way for female kitties to behave, but these admonishments fell upon deaf ears. Perhaps they are getting back at me for forcing them to wear sparkly collars with heart-shaped nametags?  Or maybe if I’d only named them Spike and Zeus they wouldn’t need to prove how tough they are?

I don’t know.  But I can only assume since no feline ears are bitten during these WrestleMania bouts and no limping occurs afterwards, human intervention has not yet become necessary. It’d be hard to tell if one of ‘em was sporting a black eye, though.

Photo from kittenhood. So it's not a newly developed skill.

Ah well. I suppose no harm is being done.  And they apparently have the Kitty version of ADHD because they never seem to make it to Round 2. One of them invariably has to stop to take a nap, while the other one decides that she’s starving and MUST be fed. Now.

So I guess I’ll continue to allow Kitty WrestleMania 2013 to continue. But if I’m supposed to name a winner, I guess I’d better start leaving my glasses on the counter in the bathroom.  We wouldn’t, after all, want to hear any accusations of

it being faked, now, would we?!

The New Addition To Our Family

We went through the adoption process recently and, really, it wasn’t as difficult as some people have claimed. I mean, we didn’t have to complete a lengthy application or endure a background check worthy of the FBI. We were not subjected to fingerprint testing and we didn’t have to write dissertations about why we wanted to adopt.  No money exchanged hands and no lawyers were involved in the process. All we had to do was say “yes” and promise to feed and water the thing.  How tough is that?

And, yes, smarty-pants, it IS a living thing. 

But it has neither two nor four legs.  It’s…well, it’s a Ficus tree. 

Freddy-the-Ficus

Now, don’t get me wrong. We had to take this adoption seriously. I mean, it’s a 9 foot, 20-year-old tree that has been lovingly cared for by his owner all these years.  And the only reason it was put up for adoption is that his dad is moving and his new home doesn’t have the proper ceiling height to maintain the lifestyle to which Freddy has been accustomed.  (Yes, I named our Ficus Freddy.  Doesn’t everyone name their Ficus?)  But it simply wouldn’t do if Freddy were suddenly forced to grow sideways because his new ceilings were only 7 feet high.

So, basically, our qualifications were that (a) we are willing to follow Freddy’s precise watering schedule, (b) we are financially sound enough to purchase Miracle-Gro and use it according to the manufacturer’s specifications, and, most importantly, (c) we have cathedral ceilings.

Naturally, any new adoption comes with it moments of concern.  Will Freddy like his new living arrangements?  Will he and Twinks and Jinx get along or, more accurately, will Twinks and Jinx leave Freddy the heck alone?  And the scariest concern of all: Will Freddy freak out and start losing his leaves? 

Yes, I worry.

Fortunately, we used the trusty iPhone compass app to determine that the window in front of which Freddy was lovingly placed faces east – the same direction Freddy faced in his old home.  So hopefully, the same amount of sun will shine in his new environment and he will thrive without getting sunburnt. 

Um, here’s a question: do they make sunscreen for Ficus trees? 

Nevertheless, I think Freddy will be happy in his new home. I hope he doesn’t freak out and lose leaves, but I suspect he may shed a few to test me, just like a kid will test a new caretaker to see how far he can push the boundaries. He’ll see if I run for the water or Miracle-Gro before his regularly scheduled feeding and/or supplementation schedule.  

Nevertheless, we will have to keep a close eye on Freddy over the next several weeks. We don’t want either of our felines demonstrating any new found tree-climbing abilities. We’ll have to discover if Freddy likes being talked to – and whose voice he prefers.  I mean, far be it for me to talk to him if he’d rather Vince do the sweet-talking.  

And, most importantly, we'll have to adhere to his feeding and watering schedule without variation.  Because – Lord knows – I could not take the guilt if I either drowned or starved Freddy after his dad was able to keep him alive for 20 years. 

I didn’t check the particulars, but I suspect this might have been an open adoption – and Freddy’s dad could pop by to visit him from time to time. And it’s not like Freddy is a generic goldfish that I could easily replace in the hopes that his former owner doesn’t realize that the original Freddy is no longer with us.

So we welcome our new addition.  We will do our best to care for you, Freddy-the-Ficus. May you stay strong and healthy and live another 20 years. At least.

But there’s just one thing.  You might want to consider sticking with your current height even if it means sucking in a little less of that Miracle-Gro.  I mean, our ceilings are high…but they’re not that high.  And, while I’m sure we’ll love you as if we’d raised you from a twig, we are not cutting any holes in the ceiling to accommodate you.  

The Help Desk

Back in the day when I worked at a big company, we had actual departments filled with people who fixed things like our computers. For some reason, we called that whole department the “Help Desk.” (Hey, don’t blame me; I wasn’t in charge of naming departments.) But I loved the Help Desk. They were my favorite people in the whole company. Well, right after the Paycheck Lady who came around every Friday and handed me money.

But whenever our computers messed up, we’d blame little gremlins. The Help Desk would tell us to do a basic analysis, which meant we were supposed to turn off the computer and then turn it back on.

If that didn’t work and the gremlins were still at work preventing our computers from functioning, we simply called the Help Desk back and they’d come to our rescue and would solve the problem. Those guys could fix anything. On the rare occasion when the gremlins got the best of them, the Help Desk guys would take our computer away and then bring us a new one that worked perfectly.

Did I mention that I loved the Help Desk?

Nowadays I work at a small company and we don’t have “departments” let alone a department called the Help Desk. We don’t even have a Help Person. Instead, we have a graphics guy. He’s our resident computer expert and that is only because he can go at least one step beyond turning-the-computer-off-and-back-on.

I miss the Help Desk.

So our Internet was down at work the other morning. Crack computer expert that I am, I knew that it wasn’t a problem with my computer specifically because nobody else in our office could access the Internet either.

But that was as far as I got. Eventually, I learned that the German Village area was having slow or no Internet connectivity.

So that meant that all morning I was at a loss. I’d start to check to see the last time a customer ordered – but then realized I couldn’t access the program since it’s online. Or I’d remember I needed to send an email to my coworkers about something – only I couldn’t send emails. Telling four people individually the news I wanted to share seemed monumentally tedious and repetitious.

Oh how we have changed in our communication delivery methods. Communicating face-to-face? Pshaw. Who does that anymore? (Thanks, Steve Jobs.)

Not only was the Internet down at work, but the night before we were again having computer problems at home. Darn gremlins. I had a photo I wanted to print, but couldn’t access my email to download it. I went upstairs to my computer and it was somehow connected to the Internet, but I don’t have a printer upstairs and I’m not connected to the printer downstairs. And, no, I don’t have any idea how to connect to the printer downstairs – don’t even get me started on that!

I’m really starting to re-think my degree in marketing communications and PR. Probably I should’ve gotten a degree in Help Desk. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so frustrated whenever we have Internet and/or computer problems at home. Because my first inclination is to assume the hardware is broken and needs to be replaced. Usually I’m wrong. (Wait. Did I just say that?!)

Nevertheless, it was a lesson in frustration the other night. Vince kept running upstairs to fiddle with the little black boxes and getting more and more frazzled when he couldn’t get the Internet up and running on his computer. Meanwhile, I stayed out of his way and didn’t voice a single complaint. But not being able to check Facebook before heading to bed was a real hardship. What can I say? I’m addicted. (Thanks, Mark Zuckerberg.)

Vince wondered if somehow the cats were playing with the computer wires. Or possibly they heard the word “mouse” and became intrigued and curious? Who knows? But When Vince came downstairs the next morning, he said his mouse and keyboard were on the floor. Twinklebelle was curled up on the couch looking all guileless and innocent. And Jinx was squeaking and standing at attention by her food bowl. Both cats looked at Vince as if they couldn’t imagine how that mouse and keyboard ended up on the floor.

Gremlins, indeed. I think our gremlins might also be known as Twinks and Jinx. And our problems might be solved once we figure out how to keep our computer-related paraphernalia out of reach of little paws. But still. I sure wish I could call the Help Desk.

The Nighttime Adventures of Twinks and Jinx

We’ve never let the cats sleep with us at night. And now I know why.

Believe me, it was not a conscious decision to allow them into our bedroom for an overnight sleepover; it was purely circumstantial.

Lately Twinks has been very “needy” and she starts meowing after we close our bedroom door. She’s on the wrong side of the door and she doesn’t like it. Extra petting right before I escape to our bedroom hasn’t seemed to help. So the other night I let her come in while we brushed our teeth and got ready for bed. She jumped on the bed and did the flopping-on-her-back maneuver, which is my cue to give her a belly rub.

Unbeknownst to me, the stealthy one, Jinx, also slithered into the room. Jinx doesn’t hop on the bed and demand love and affection. Instead, she crawls under the bed and explores. I’d call it “hiding,” but Jinx doesn’t want a reputation as a scaredy cat.

We don’t usually know she’s under the bed until either Twinks, who was politely escorted out of the room, starts meowing because her cohort is still inside and it’s unfair or (b) Jinx squeaks at us to let us know that she’s done exploring and wants us to get up immediately and let her out. Who knew a squeaky kitty could be so loud?

So after I gently encouraged Twinks to leave the room the other night and I closed the door Vince said, “You know that Jinx is still in here – right?”

I hadn’t known, but realized he was right because Twinks commenced meowing through the closed door to let me know that I was playing favorites.

Knowing it would be nearly impossible to get Jinx out from under the bed, I sighed and opened the door to let Twinks back in. And right then I knew it was going to be a long night.

Vince wasn’t too happy with this turn of events (not that he volunteered to crawl under the bed to try to retrieve Jinx-the-Explorer or anything). Instead, he grabbed earplugs from his nightstand and stuffed them in his ears to drown out the twinkling sounds the bells on their collars make whenever they move.

Clearly, our cats are nocturnal creatures and move around at night. A lot.

Thus began a very long sleepless night with one or more cats crawling over the bed and us to find comfy spots to sleep in, which usually meant crowding us in some way. Once they’d curl up, they’d start whapping their tail on my cheek every 10 seconds or so. They’d whap, I’d twitch and scratch the ensuing itch the whapping caused and then I’d flip over to avoid the tail entirely.

Yeah, like that worked. My cats are persistent if nothing else. Once I turned over, the cat would move such that my cheek was once again in her line of fire.

Sigh.

Did I mention that it was a VERY long sleepless night?

I contemplated trying to get them out of the room, but being dark, I wouldn’t have been able to see them clearly. And I wouldn’t have been able to see Jinx, the black one, at all. Made me wonder why I hadn’t considered adopting an orange tabby or something more visible in low light situations.

Besides, I knew that even if I was successful in getting one of them out of the room, I wouldn’t be able to get both out simultaneously. So what would happen is that if I eventually herded the second one toward the door, the moment I opened it, the first one would rush back in.

So I lay there trying to count sheep in the hopes that I might eventually fall asleep. Inevitably, the sheep turned into cats and I started having nightmares that we lived with an entire clowder of 'em instead of only two.

At some point in the early morning hours, I heard the bedroom door slam. I figured either Vince gave up and decided to sleep on the couch – or he managed to convince the felines that they were no longer welcome and was able to escort them out of the room.

Since he came back to bed, it turned out to be the latter. Probably they were hungry and had gotten bored with torturing us. Of course, by this point we didn’t have a whole lot more snooze time before the alarm went off.

When it did, Vince turned over toward me, blearily opened a bloodshot eye and said, “this thing with the cats sleeping with us? It’s not gonna work.”

Yeah. No kidding.

Cats. Ya gotta love ‘em. Can’t sleep with ‘em.

The Magical Appearance of Jinx-the-Cat

What a beautiful warm, sunny day we’re having here in Central Ohio on this, the first day of June. I should be grateful. I mean, we’re not experiencing any sort of catastrophic weather conditions, which in my world translates to a slightly overcast day with a few sprinkles.

Nor is the real world experiencing any real catastrophic weather conditions at this very moment. In Central Ohio, anyway.

I would be grateful, but I’m a little tired and grouchy. Or, if you ask Vince, he’d likely say that I’m a lot tired and grouchy. To wit: when he said, “Good morning, sunshine!” in a way-too-cheerful voice this morning, I opened one unfocused, bloodshot eye and growled at him. He probably thought, Uh oh. It’s obviously a five-alarm caffeine emergency. Gotta get on that – stat!

I should have had an inkling about what sort of morning I was going to have when we didn’t head upstairs to bed until nearly 1AM. I’m not even sure why we stayed up so late – it’s not like we had an urgent agenda that kept us up. And, no, watching reruns of The Office does not count as “urgent.”

So I knew that even if I dropped off immediately and slept soundly until my alarm rang this morning, I was still going to be dealing with a less-than-full quota of REM sleep.

Plus, it has been a little too warm in our bedroom lately despite running the A/C on full blast. Vince has deduced it is because we keep the door closed so Twinks and Jinx, our adorable yet far-too-energetic kittens, stay out of the bedroom and don’t startle us awake with midnight pounces. Last night Vince apparently decided to leave the bedroom door open a crack to see if the cool air would circulate upstairs a little better. But (and this is key), he neglected to inform me of his decision.

Did the kittens take full advantage of that cracked door? Pshaw! Of course they did.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by a furry head bumping against my hand, which in cat language means “PET ME NOW!” Still half asleep, I complied. But then in some deep recess of my brain, it occurred to me that Jinx should not have been in the bedroom let alone on the bed requiring petting. And then it occurred to me that if one cat was around, the other one must be in the vicinity. But I didn’t sense Twinks in the room, which was puzzling.

So, as Jinx took full advantage of my sleepy state and reveled in all the attention she was getting, I started to awaken more fully. Not what I wanted to do at, it turns out, 3:30 in the morning.

Because I didn’t want Jinx to wake up Vince, I eventually picked her up and walked over to the bedroom door intending to shoo her out. Except that the door was tightly closed.

So I opened the door and placed her gently on the floor and then quickly shut the door again. Only now I was wide awake. How, I wondered, did Jinky-Jinx manage to get inside our room when the bedroom door was tightly closed? Do we have some sort of cat-sized hole in the wall that somehow escaped our notice? Did she learn to magically teleport herself through closed doors?

Then I started thinking that if she can do the disappearing and reappearing trick like that Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, I’m going to fully exploit her talent in a get-rich-quick scheme of the highest magnitude. Hey, she’s cute and all, but it’s about time she earned her keep. Friskies ain’t cheap, you know.

Yeah…three-thirty in the morning is clearly not a good time to try to think, well, clearly.

I almost shook Vince awake to discuss the situation, but I knew one of us needed to be relatively cheerful in the morning. Eventually I dropped back into sleep only to be rudely awakened a short time later by the alarm.

Yippee, I thought. It’s time to get up after an oh-so restful night.

But once I poured some Visine into my bloodshot eyes and had my caffeine transfusion, I was semi-awake and able to communicate with my loving and patient husband.

He admitted that he was awake the entire time Jinx was in the room, but only pretended to be asleep. Why? Maybe he was worried I’d shoo Jinx over to his side of the bed so he’d have to deal with her. Or perhaps he thought pretend-sleep was preferable to engaging in a conversation with me about our magical cat.

Turns out while I blithely snoozed away earlier, he was awaked when little Miss Motocross – Twinks – first entered the bedroom. As she zipped around the room exploring such fascinating things as tassels on the decorative pillows, the jingly bell on her collar alerted Vince that there was a cat in the bedroom. The second jingly bell told him that Jinx had followed her sister into the No-Felines-Allowed Zone. He managed to snag Twinklebelle and put her out of the bedroom, but Jinx escaped his grasp. So he shut the bedroom door with Jinx still inside the room.

Thus, the mystery was solved and my hastily devised get-rich-quick scheme disappeared in a puff of smoke once I realized that Jinx does not have “Beam me up, Scotty” abilities.

Drat. Foiled again.

So, instead of lounging around all day on a bed full of decorative pillows covered with tassels and counting my riches, I had to get up and go to work. And do I get to indulge in a much-needed after-work nap? Nooo. Instead, I have to stop by the store and pick up yet another bag of Friskies.

And tonight? Well, tonight I think we’ll be so tired we’ll sleep through any sort of catastrophic situation – weather- or feline-related. But just to be safe, I think we’ll make sure the bedroom door is tightly closed.

Jane’s Early Morning Wake-Up Call

I woke up unexpectedly and wayyyyy too early this morning, so I’m tired. And the caffeine I’ve been pouring down my gullet hasn’t helped one iota.

I’m blaming the felines in the house because they woke me up shortly before 5AM by licking my cheek. Believe me, this was unexpected because the felines in the house have heretofore been banned from our bedroom. So you can imagine how startling this particular wake-up call was. Vince, by the way, never ever wakes me up in the morning by licking my cheek.

Speaking of my dear husband, perhaps I should be blaming him for the early wake-up call since he’s the one who left the bedroom door open, which allowed the little monsters access to the room. Not to mention access to my cheek.

We’ve banned them from the bedroom because we’re trying to keep our comforter, which we received as a wedding gift, from being shredded by their little killer kitty claws. (Say that five times fast.)

So far we’ve managed to keep it shred-and snag-free. And I believe my behavior once the sandpapery little tongue came in contact with my cheek was enough to convince the kittens that they did NOT wish to remain in the bedroom to explore any further. I shot straight up in bed and shrieked “Eeeeek!” because I wasn’t even dreaming about a kitten licking my cheek.

Their response was to do that peculiar-but-funny cat maneuver of launching themselves vertically in the air with claws extended and fur and tail standing straight up. Without touching ground, they then scampered out of the bedroom.

Meanwhile, I fumbled around for my glasses and then trudged downstairs to give them some food in the hopes that they would leave me alone and I could get at least a little cat-nap (ha) on the couch before I had to officially start my day.

What I failed to do was shut the bedroom door after I left the room.

I gave them their morning portion of kitten chow, which always makes me laugh. Why? Because they act as if they’ve never seen food before and they’re squeaking (Jinx) and meowing (Twinks) as if they’re absolutely starving! (I’m feeding them according to our vet’s instructions, so they shouldn’t be “absolutely starving.” But this is beside the point.)

They wolfed down their chow while I pulled a fuzzy throw over myself and attempted to close my eyes. Moments later, they snapped open again because I could hear only a faint jingling of the little bells on their collars. My crack intellect told me that they were getting into mischief beyond my immediate reach.

So I snuck upstairs and discovered them back in the bedroom where they were launching themselves off the bedside table and onto the bed. Sigh.

Somehow I managed to herd them out of the bedroom. Then I slipped back inside, shut the door, turned off the light and jumped back in bed.

Except I couldn’t sleep anymore. I dozed a little bit, perhaps, but I couldn’t get settled back down.

Other than a little incident when applying mascara this morning (the brush should never go directly into one’s eye), I seem to be unscathed by my lack of sleep. But I’m pretty glad that I’m wearing boots today – they seem to be keeping me a little more stable. If I’d worn my slip-on moccasins, I suspect I would be swaying on my feet. And it’s a good thing I’m spending the majority of my time sitting down.

Anyway, I’m sure I’ll wake up. Eventually. Meanwhile, I sort of wish I was at home today. Why? Because every time I saw those kittens dozing, I think I’d be tempted to go over and wake them up by blowing in their faces. Or by banging on some pots and pans. Or by slamming a door.

I’d try licking their little cheeks, but they’d probably (a) like it, and (b) think the other kitten was giving her a bath. But mostly (c), I don’t need to deal with a hairball today.

BAD Kitties!

I’m sick of winter, yes, but I’m also sick of writing about the crappy weather. So…let’s see…what else can I talk about?

Well, I could talk about how I’m usually greeted each morning by two happy, playful kittens when I start descending the stairs. Today, however, they were nowhere to be seen…so I knew something was up.

Sure enough, I reached the bottom step – and nearly stepped into a mound of brownish-black…dirt. (What did you think I was going to say?!) Yes, it was only dirt and not something of an earthier (read: smellier) nature – but that didn’t make me any happier to see it.

Both kittens were lying meekly on the floor at the diametrically opposite point in the room from the mound of dirt and trying to look utterly guileless and innocent.

Yeah, like I bought their act.

It’s at this point that parents of real-life children ask their little darlings who created the mess and hope that even if the guilty party won’t admit it, the narc in the family will point a finger. Kittens, however, aren’t quite as cooperative. For one thing, they don’t have pointer fingers.

Since Twinklebelle is usually the culprit at torturing the plants on the plant stand by the stairs and has earned her share of water gun squirts in an attempt to teach her not to torture said plants, I assumed it was her fault. But what does that really matter? I mean, I can’t punish her by forcing her to clean up the mess. I can’t put her in a time-out. And I can’t take away her iPod or TV watching privileges. So I kind of think I’m screwed.

Oh, hey, I know…I could refuse to clean out her litter box! That might make me feel a little better as it’s not exactly a chore I look forward to. But once the smell overwhelmed us, I’d wonder WHO exactly I was punishing. So…no. That’s not a solution.

And, for some odd reason, Twinks likes a dirty litter box! Every day when I grab a plastic bag and the litter shovel (and gas mask and industrial strength gloves) and head toward the litter boxes, Twinks runs alongside me attacking the plastic bag. And when I actually scoop out some dirty litter, she takes swipes at the bag as if to say, “Hey! That was some good stuff I took great pains to hide in that box! What do you think you’re doing unearthing it?”

There are times I even resort to bribing Twinks with treats and then shut her in the pantry while I clean out her litter box. The last thing I want her to do is claw a hole in the plastic bag so that I’m leaving a trail of dirty kitty litter as I walk out to the garage. Can you say, “Yeeuccckkk!”?!

I never had this sort of trouble with my first cat, Tux. Or maybe I just don’t remember anymore. But I don’t recall her chewing on roses or swiping at plants on the plant stand. And, as she was a rather fastidious cat, she was more than happy to let me clean and sanitize her litter box.

And our other kitten, Jinx? Well, she’s no angel either. She learned how to take a flying leap off the top of the chair into the big potted plant in the dining room, which caused me to have such apoplectic fits, she learned just as quickly how to scramble out of the big potted plant. But since she has grown and doesn’t fit quite so easily in the big potted plant in the dining room, we haven’t had to deal with that issue lately.

Kittens? You gotta love ‘em. But for the life of me, I can’t remember why I was so determined to have tiny, little furballs at home instead of mature cats that no longer need to explore the world with quite so much, um, gusto.

Lunch, anyone?

I keep forgetting we have kittens at home – kittens as opposed to adult cats. And I’ve forgotten how vastly different kittens are from adult cats.

Adult cats like to find warm, sunshiny places so they can nap uninterrupted for approximately 22 hours a day. The other hour is for eating. And the last hour is for creating stinky messes in their litter boxes. Okay, maybe they only nap for 21 hours a day as it seems physically impossible for the stinky messes in their litter boxes to be the result of one mere hour of effort.

But I digress. (I could write a book on stinky messes in litter boxes. Sadly, no one would want to read it. Or ever have an appetite again.)

Anyway, as I was saying…

Kittens, on the other hand, are rambunctious and extremely curious. Like when there is a lovely bouquet of red roses in the center of the dining room table from my wonderful husband for Valentine’s Day. Kittens who have never before seen red roses think they are something to be explored. And they think it is their kittenly duty to chew on said roses to see if they are edible.

When they discover the flowers are not as good as say, whipped cream, they continue to pounce upon the innocent petals and shred them to bits.

Now I know where the saying, “Curiosity killed the cat” comes from. The kitty funeral will be tomorrow at 10AM. No, I kid. Like shredding my roses warrants the death penalty. (This was not as easy a call as you might think...)

No, instead, the first time I caught them on the table chewing on my roses, I shrieked. While that startled them into immediately jumping down, it didn’t deter them for long.

Since I didn’t want to spend the entire day shrieking at kittens or standing guard at the dining room table causing Vince to regret purchasing the roses in the first place, I moved the vase to the sideboard. I then piled stuff on top of the chair closest to the sideboard in hopes that it would keep the kittens from reaching the roses.

Ha. Like that worked. Apparently I didn’t use enough sharp, pointy objects on my barrier.

Eventually, Twinks and Jinx lost interest in the now-shredded roses and moved on to other pursuits. Like clawing their way up my leg and sliding back down, claws fully extended, of course, in an attempt to create their own human amusement ride.

By the next morning, three of the roses were black and had to go to that great rose heaven in the sky (also known as that great trash can in the garage).

And for the next four days the roses sat way back on the sideboard barely visible and somewhat neglected. Finally, Vince suggested I bring the survivors to my office so I could look at them without fear of reprisal from destructive kittens. Duh. Why didn’t I think of that before?

So now they sit on my desk to be enjoyed and admired for another day or two.

And, surprisingly, not one single co-worker has come in to my office with the intention of chewing on my roses.

How great is that?!