Friday, October 27, 2006

Witch Kitty

Witch Kitty
This is Butterball.

He’s dead.

I’m sick.

No, not so sick that I dressed up a dead cat.

He was alive when I dressed him up. This pictures is several years old.

Mother Nature killed him. Or Father Time. Or Sister Fate. That whole family’s a bunch of homicidal maniacs.

My whole family’s a bunch of sickos, too. We’ve got the flu or the croup or the plague, I dunno. Everyone is coughing and sneezing and has sore throats and laryngitis. They’ve all been home all week, hacking and moaning and expecting me to drag my equally sick butt outta bed to take care of them - LOL

I haven’t had a chance to do much else, so if I haven’t visited you or commented or mailed you something, now you know why.

Husband said (well wheezed and motioned) that he had to go in to work today. Reports were due, meetings were set, deadlines had to be met.

So together, we dragged our sorry selves out of bed at the monstrous hour of 3 AM. It is raining. There is a fierce wind blowing. I am tired. I haven’t had twenty minutes of uninterrupted sleep in 5 or 6 days. I’ve lost track - time has little meaning, and I am adrift in a sea of snot - LOL

But duty called. I said let it ring, but Husband gathered up his fortitude and responded. So off we were at 3:30 this ugly morn. I was not a good travelling companion.

The wind was blowing buckets of leaves from the trees. My fevered brain did not function sufficiently to process what was happening, and I cried out, (as best I could, with my gravelly, laryngitis-y voice) “Oh crap! Huge brown snowflakes! We’re doomed!”

Husband sighed, wheezily.

I rubbed my eyes and slapped my cheeks, trying to wake up. I thought I was doing a little better until a strong gust blew a green plastic trash-can-on-wheels out in front of us. Husband clipped the edge of it with his bumper.

“You’ve killed a leprechaun!”

I think he actually believed he had, for a moment.

We managed to arrive at his office and he warily handed the keys over to me. I staggered around to the driver’s side, and plopped into the seat. His car is a stick shift, and I am not really fond of driving a stick. He said, “But you know how to shift gears.” I replied I know how to give a barium enema too, but it doesn’t mean I enjoy it. He didn't say anything else.

Plus, I am not very familiar with the placement of the controls for wipers, lights, defroster, and dilithium crystals. *snicker*

There must be a thousand green-glowing buttons. I don’t know what any of them do. I was afraid that if I touched anything, somewhere, a kitten would die. Just like poor ol’ Butterball. Then I would become a killer bitch, just like Mother Nature. But I drove back, cursing the weather and people who pulled out in front of me. “Damn you! Now I have to downshift!”

I could barely see the road for the rain and blowing leaves. I was afraid I’d miss the exits and end up in Des Moines, knowing that they don’t want a kitten killer bitch who sounds like Harvey Fierstein and can’t find the controls, in their town.

Somehow I made it back here, and I am safe within the confines of Casa de Mucus. God help anybody who gets in my way when I have to go back this afternoon.

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