Recommended wine for today’s entry: Although today’s installment is about my low-class existence, this wine is in no way low class. I’m recommending a glass of Cavit Pinot Noir, which Good Housekeeping magazine once listed as one of the “best bottles under $12.” It is an Italian wine and the magazine listed it among the lighter, elegant reds. Cavit’s Web site describes it as “silky smooth red is medium-bodied with well-defined fruit redolent of red berries, cherries and soft, supple tannins.” And under $12 a bottle!
My husband took a day off last week and I believe I wowed him with my productivity. He was awed by all that I accomplish on what to him was an ordinary Wednesday.
First, I showered. Like at 8:30 a.m. Because my daughter recently accused me of not getting out of my pajamas until 11 a.m., I think he was pleasantly surprised at my get-up-and-go.
Next, I had to begin the psychological preparations for the two cats who were due at the vet for their annual checkups. Huckleberry is not stupid. She knows that if I suddenly swoop her up off the bed and walk toward the kitchen, something horrifying that often involves thermometers and her rectum is about to happen. So– and who can blame her — she immediately digs her claws deep, deep into the onionskin paper that covers my neck. This not only causes me significant pain, but leaves eyebrow-raising scratches that are difficult to explain.
But if I do three or four scoop-and-walks that DON’T result in getting jammed into the cat carrier, then she gets a little lackadaisical and lets her guard down. So I spent about 40 minutes in this preparatory mode.
Then I loaded Leroy into the car and successfully (and without bloodshed) crated Huckleberry and loaded her too. For the 30-minute drive I listened to growling and meowing that emanated from the carriers in a back-and-forth discourse between the front seat and the back seat.
Leroy: Is that you Huckleberry? I hate you, Huckleberry.
Hucky: Shut up you stupid trashy outside cat.
Leroy: Did I mention I hate you, you little pansy? I could gut you like that chipmunk I took down yesterday.
Hucky: So sorry it’s like sub-freezing in that garage. I took the nicest nap in a sunbeam on top of the heat vent today.
Leroy: Yeah, it must be tiring getting humped by the black Lab all the time.
Hucky: Well, I heard mom and dad say they this trip to the vet would be your last. You know what that means.
Leroy: No … what does that mean?
Hucky: Just don’t let them give you a shot. You know?
It took me a long time to convince Leroy that it was just a rabies shot, but then I had to open my big mouth and mention to the vet that she’d been very thirsty lately, which of course led to discussion of her thyroid and a bit of a bloodletting from her neck to test for potential disorder.
She got the front seat on the way home, because I like to be fair, and so I was able to watch in her little window as she expressed her displeasure by peeing all over the crate before we even left the parking lot. Then, for the 30-minute ride home, I was offered the choice of inhaling the scent of fresh cat urine or opening a window in 40-degree weather. Glamour just seems to follow me.
Next I cleaned the crate and changed my covered-in-cat-hair clothes. (WOW, Sesame Street could use that phrase on Letter C day.) It was important to be clean, because I had somewhere else to be.
The quick oil change place. And I know grooming matters to those folks.
My husband took his car, and because I am mother of the year, I took my daughter’s small SUV. I allowed her to take my large SUV to her tutoring job, even though, as she walked out the door with my keys, she told me that she couldn’t ever keep it in one lane.
When the little garage door went up and I was supposed to drive her car over the gaping open pit with little men standing in it, I froze. It was like some kind of Whack-a-Mole game, as their heads popped up and down. So I had to get my husband to drive the car in. He scoffed at me, calling me an old woman.
I immediately ratted his mean behavior out to the punk rock chick who worked there — the one with the dangly earring hanging from her lip — said that she absolutely wouldn’t drive a car into the bay. I mean, if someone who works there every day and is, in all likelihood, slightly high, won’t try it, I don’t think it’s “old womanish” of me to avoid it. And they said that once a week someone drives into the pit, requiring a tow truck for extraction.
So, while my husband stayed with the cars in the greasy, oily work area, I retired to the plush comfort of the waiting room.
There was an oil changer guy on his lunch break, sitting in a chair facing a wall. I guess if you turn your chair away from the totally empty waiting room, it feels more like a lunchroom. And I think it was good that I didn’t see him eating, because when he turned around, he had about 5 little triangular corners of Nacho Cheese Doritos pointing out of his scruffy beard that reminded me of whatever it is Brad Pitt has done to his formerly spectacular face.
So as not to stare at Dorito face, I turned my attention to the TV, comfortably mounted about 12 feet above my head. It was tuned to a show I’ve never watched, called The Doctors. Today’s topic, the scroll told me, was Disorders that start with D or something equally alliterative.
The first one: Damaged Sperm. Now we have Scruffy the Dorito Lover, Punky With The Well-Accessorized Lip, and me, watching as the graphic of a million little swimming sperm covers the wall behind the doctors. Little uncomfortable. Next up — a caller who has had diarrhea for like six months. Luckily, they only flashed her first name on the screen. The caption: Rebecca, and underneath: Has recurring bouts of diarrhea. Well, it is very nice they kept her anonymous, because nobody wants their friends to know that they’ve been having severe bowel problems while attending their dinner parties. Not to mention a nationwide audience. So it’s good they didn’t use her last name.
Instead they showed HER PICTURE! And she must have sent it to them. I mean, if you have to get your 15 minutes of fame this way, you are famously stupid.
I just picture her high school boyfriend passing by the TV and going, “OHMYGOD, I know her! That’s Becky, the first love of my life! I always knew she’d be famous! What’s she on TV for?” and his business partner, trying to swallow the bite of sandwich that suddenly tastes repulsive, “She’s had diarrhea for six months. You really missed the boat on that one, Sparky.”
Anyway, the rest of my day was equally dull and mundane. But I took solace in that it wasn’t as bad as Rebecca’s.