The Husband

Operation Meow Meow ¹

There are three major initiatives in my plot to convince Scott to adopt a kitten for our new house. He’s certainly not a cat man, but I’m hoping these three strategies will be enough to win him over so I’ll have the green light to craft a mid-century modern cat condo for my next Pinterest Challenge project. (I may or may not have already started shopping online for kitty cat bow ties.)

Yes, these are the things I choose to occupy my time with.

Part 1: Arrange a meet and greet between Scott and the cat

This part of the plan was executed over the weekend. Unfortunately, it didn’t go off as smoothly as I had hoped. While I assumed Scott would instantly be enamored the moment I placed the fragile puff of orange fur in his hands, he simply spent the entire twenty-minutes complaining about claws while maneuvering her fragile little body into a series of awkward cat poses. To make matters worse, Jolie was beyond terrified of the kitten. Picture whimpering, violent chihuahua shaking, and hiding in an old box of burlap bags for nearly an hour. How she has no problem attacking a full-grown Pit Bull or biting a Great Dane in the face but is petrified by a six-week old cat is beyond me.

Part 2: Dream up an irresistible cat name

Scott has always been a sucker for a clever pet moniker. Surely, coming up with a genius namesake for our new little friend will be motivation enough to make this adoption official. After brainstorming a few possibilities (“Juice” since the cat is orange, “Old Sport”, inspired by The Great Gatsby, “Skunk Cabbage”, just because I think it’s funny ) I’ve finally landed on a winner.

Gilly.

Yes, Gilly as in the character so brilliantly portrayed by Kristen Wig on SNL.

Scott and I have always adored Kristen’s Gilly sketches. I for one would love to summon our new feline by slowly bellowing “Gilly….” in a deep, scolding tone a la the video above.

(Here’s hoping the cat doesn’t actually live up to its mischevious name.)

Scott’s take? “I love it! Gilly. It’s the perfect name for a big dog!”

(I’m still working on that part.)

3. Purchase the CitiKitty

In a moment of weakness, Scott agreed to take in a new kitten. “But only if it’s an outside cat.” he sternly warned.

“What? No way!” I screeched. “This is definitely going to be an inside cat.”

“Nope.” he stubbornly responded. “I’m all about outside cats and inside dogs.”

I let out an exasperated sigh before continuing. “Scott. There are tons of hawks and bald eagles where we’ll be living. There’s no way on the planet I’m adopting a kitten only to have it snatched up by a bird of prey!”

“Sorry, Katrina. I don’t do litter boxes.”

“Come on!” I pleaded. “We can put the litter box in a totally obscure place! No one will even know it’s there…I promise.”

“I’ll know it’s there. I’m sorry Katrina, but the only way we’re having an indoor cat is if it’s toilet trained like Jinxy from Meet the Parents.”

Enter the CitiKitty. (Warning. The video below includes real, unedited cat turds.)

(Hopefully the CitiKitty proves more successful than the fiasco that was Jolie’s litter box training.)

Scott watched this video and rolled his eyes before gagging when the cat poop made its debut. I think that means I can get the kitty, right?

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Creative Delights

Stupid winky face

The Cookie

Pimple Karma ⁴

Last Friday, I promised to reveal my scheme to convince Scott to adopt a mischievous orange kitten.

While you can rest assured that my plotting is still in full swing, I regret to inform you that unforseen circumstances have forced me to delay the big reveal until tomorrow.

And by unforseen circumstances, I mean this:

(I think this is the only thing worse than if I had dropped it in the toilet.)

I think it’s best to start from the beginning. Despite the fact that Scott works in Dermatology, I instantly ignore his acne expertise the minute I see a blemish on his face.

“Scott. You have to let me pop that. Trust me…it’s bad.”

“Katrina. No. You just need to let it be. This is what I do for a living…I think I know the proper course of action.”

Cue me, completely disregarding his advice and going in for the whitehead. Fingernails were used, which resulted in wriggling, yelling, and the iPhone completing a swan dive into the water glass that was so perfectly graceful, I almost suspected it was choreographed.

“OH MY GOSH!!!!!!!” I shrieked in horror.

“Quick! Get it out of there!” Scott screamed.

My reflexes eventually kicked in. After a great deal of wiping, shaking and Scott sucking water from the charger hole as if it were a high-tech straw, it seemed all the water was gone.

“I can’t believe your luck.” Scott oozed sarcastically, “The phone still works.”

“Lemme see!” I yelled while grabbing the device with all the politeness of a 5-year-old girl with a serious case of the ‘gimmes’.

I was shocked to see he was right. The phone did still work. At least for about sixty seconds. Then the touchscreen went out.

A few hours later, we found ourselves at the Apple Genius Bar. I have a pretty solid track record of getting iPhones replaced for free, and my hopes were high. (Although dashed slightly when I realized a female would be helping me, as she might not respond as well to my flirtatious charms.)

That doesn’t mean I didn’t give it the old college try, though.

After a quick introduction, I explained that the my touchscreen had gone out earlier that afternoon.

“Well,” she replied, “The good news is that you’re still well within you’re warranty. If I can’t fix it, we’ll be able to swap you out with a new phone free of charge.”

Cha-ching! Perhaps my charms do transcend the confines of gender, after all!

“Let me just open it up and take a look inside to see if there’s a simple fix I could make before we replace it.”

And just like that, she applied a bizarre looking suction cup contraption to the face of the my phone. Within moments, the white glossy exterior was pried open.

I should also probably mention that approximately three ounces of water came gushing out, squirting directly across the woman’s face as if to taunt her.

(No more cha-ching.)

On the bright side, Scott had the foresight to purchase Apple Care when we purchased our phones last summer. This meant a replacement device only set us back fifty bucks.

On the not so bright side, I don’t think Scott’s ever letting me pop one of his pimples again.

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The long drive home

Sports Bra Jitters: The Conclusion ⁷

You may remember that last Friday, I made the impulsive decision to participate in a 5K while wearing only a sports bra.

The good news? I came through on my promise. (Even if it was only because I had already written publicly about it and knew backing out could be seen as flakey.)

The bad news? My decision might have been slightly…well…ill-conceived. (Shocking, I know.)

Here’s why:

1. The event was held at a church

As luck would have it, we actually had to go inside the church to register. While I pride myself in being a liberal Lutheran who doesn’t have a problem with a little PDA (public display of abs), entering God’s house in nothing but leggings and a bra–not to mention starting the race with a prayer while my love handles were out for all to see–felt inherently sacrilegious.

2. It was cold and windy

Every last ounce of self-control was required to keep me from running to the car and grabbing my jacket. While the temperature for the actual race was fine, the thirty minutes spent waiting for the festivities to start was pretty nippy. Luckily, I was fully prepared and had worn my trusty DIMRS. (Ladies, if you don’t have a pair of these already, hop on over to Amazon right now and click “order”. Trust me.)

3. It was a family event

Translation? I heard at least four children ask their mommies, “Why isn’t that lady wearing a shirt?”

(I considered responding with, “Because she hasn’t eaten Oreos in THREE MONTHS!!!” but realized that might frighten the youngsters.)

Do I regret my decision? Absolutely not. Sure, this might not have been the optimal setting for my navel’s coming out party, but I’ve wanted to do it forever, and it felt strangely liberating. I’m assuming wearing only a sports bra in public is similar to riding a bicycle…once you’ve managed it once, you’ll be able to do it for the rest of your life without losing your balance or injuring yourself or others?

(Admittedly, that was a terrible analogy…but I think you get what I’m trying to say.)

I completed the course in 32:18. Not bad for someone who hadn’t jogged in over a month, right?

Bonus: my bib number was my birthday!

Running 3.1 miles seriously kicked my butt, but being part of a community event provided the extra boost of motivation I needed to finish the race without stopping once! Perhaps the most encouraging part was halfway through the race, when I noticed Scott standing at the corner, taking pictures. He had come to watch me run! And was so proud of my sheer athletic ability he had been inspired to document the experience with his camera phone! I sucked in my gut, corrected my posture, and picked up the pace so I might impress him even more than I already had. He smiled, waved, and continued snapping photos of his oh-so-athletic wife. I had done the husband proud.

Or so I thought.

Remember that part about not stopping once during the race?

Technically I did pause for about ten seconds at the two-mile mark…but only so I might send a quick text message.

If there’s one good reason to stop during a race–aside from a medical emergency–I think this was it.

And to my credit, that guy ahead of me was only sixty-eight.

On the bright side, Scott treated me to dinner and a movie post race…so at least there’s that.

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How to ruin Mother’s Day. (For a duck, at least.) ⁰

Last week, Scott and Jolie came in from a walk with a little extra pep in their step.

“Guess what?!” Scott exclaimed jovially.

“Jolie finally lost her virginity?” I wryly remarked.

“No. Better. We found a duck nest.

(Maybe it’s me, but how exactly is that better than Jolie getting de-flowered at the tender age of 56?)

“It’s just behind the apartment on the edge of the pet exercise area,” Scott continued. “Jolie’s actually the one who found it. She started growling suddenly and scared off the mama duck. Sure enough, there was a nest full of eggs. You should see them! They’re surprisingly big…just like chicken eggs!”

Jolie’s tail wagged in delight as she panted vigorously while running about in clumsy chihuahua circles. Clearly, she was still experiencing the high of her suburban duck hunt.

“Isn’t it bad to chase the mother away?” I inquired. “Sometimes they don’t come back, right? Especially if you let Jolie sniff around in the nest. Her scent is probably all over it.”

Scott shrugged casually. “Possibly. I’ll keep an eye on it. Hopefully she’ll be back tomorrow.”

She didn’t come back the following day. Or the two days after that. In fact, when Scott took Jolie out for a stroll yesterday evening, he returned with some extra baggage in tow.

Abandoned duck eggs. You can tell he felt really bad.

Okay…maybe not THAT bad.

Moments later, Scott began preparing a free-range duck scramble. “Look at the color of the yolk, Katrina. These are gonna be delicious. They’re basically farm-fresh!”

“Technically, they’re back-of-the-apartment-pet-exercise-area-fresh.” I retorted while rolling my eyes. “I still can’t believe you stole duck eggs.”

“Katrina,” Scott reasoned, “the eggs were ice-cold. The mother hasn’t been back since we scared her off last week. I feel bad about what happened, but at least this way the eggs won’t go to waste.”

While I knew Scott was right, something about stealing unborn ducklings on such a sacred day felt inherently wrong. “Yeah…but don’t you realize what day it is?” I hinted.

“I know, I know.” Scott sighed. “That duck is having the worst Mother’s Day ever. But don’t get upset with me…Jolie’s the one who scared her off in the first place.”

At the sound of her name, Jolie slowly rolled across sofa while breaking wind and licking her chops. Truly, this waterfowl Mother’s Day gone wrong wasn’t anyone’s fault…just an unfortunate pet exercise area coincidence.

Still…out of respect for mothers of all species, I declined Scott’s stolen scramble, no matter how delicious he claimed it to be.