Aaron Paul Lazar
Aaron Paul Lazar
I shot myself in the foot.
Well, not literally, of course. I did it inadvertently when I bought a fancy-dancy “memory foam” pad for our bed.
Memory foam? Am I supposed to remember my dreams better? Maybe so. I’ve had some doozies lately. Like the one where six helicopters swarmed down on my house and unloaded armored agents from Kodak to see if I was “compliant.” Compliant with what? Rules about pixels or image composition? Who knows? Anyway, after tromping through my house and computer, they left in a flurry while I log-rolled down a clover-covered hill in sheer bliss. Man, I love those dreams.
I guess memory foam is supposed to conform to your form. Is that it? Then I really screwed up. On top of that oh-so-comfy foam cover, I bought red flannel sheets. And a down-filled pillow. Add to that my down comforter with the cozy corduroy cover and you’ve got… sweet comfort. Sheer, indulgent, keep-ya-in-bed-forever comfort.
I’ve never had a nice bed. Chalk it up to lack of finances, higher priorities, or just my acceptance of things less-than-perfect. I always woke up with back pain and often limped to the bathroom when the alarm screeched at me. But now, life is different.
This morning the alarm went off at 6:00. I lay there, warm and cozy and so comfy I just couldn’t get up.
I’m gonna be late. And I don’t care.
I pressed the snooze button. First mistake.
Just a few more minutes. Mmm.
I pressed it again. Second mistake. I rolled over and turned my back to the alarm.
Oh, so comfy. Oh so warm.
Jasmine purred. She lifted one soft black paw to my cheek and patted it. I stretched a hand out from the warmth and stroked her long, black fur. She pushed her head against my hand. I mumbled to her.
“Nice Kitty. Good Girl.”
She scooched closer. I smelled her kitty breath.
Maybe I should take a vacation day. I haven’t stayed home in a long time.
More kitty paw-patting. She maneuvered her front leg under my blankets and tried to crawl inside. Her face was inches from mine. She snuffled. She wheezed. I opened one eye.
And then she sneezed all over my face. A great big, wet, sloppy horrible mess.
I yelled, pushed her back, swiped at my face, and got up. After sloshing soap and water all over my mouth, nose and cheeks, I looked in the mirror.
Shoot! I’m gonna be late!
Maybe I ought to go back to my lumpy old mattress. And get Jasmine some Claritin.
HAH! YOU GO, JASMINE!!
Tuna Breath to the fore!
Try having a kitten - too small to smack hard, but if I did, oh so easy to smack her clear across the room and bounce her baby butt off the wall - bite your friggin' nose!! No, I mean getting her teeth up in your nostril and biting the nare, not just biting the bulb!! DAMN that hurts! And tuna breath to boot!
I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and mostly gently plopped her completely oblivious ass on the floor.
Didn't do any good, she scrambled back up and was back in my face in a heartbeat.
Finally I got up and did the usual cat dance: get more tuna (well, whitefish from WalMart) and plop it down in a bowl. At that hour of the morning it smelled nauseous. I had to have two cups of coffee before I could stomach a bagel with cream cheese. Christ! Tuna breath and then whitefish! You'd think cats would love Kit'N'Kaboodle dry food, it's not near as stinky...but noooooo.
And I was too "up" to go back to bed, alarm or not. Ruined morning, all I could do was write poetry and blabble it on my blog. Damn. Cats'll ruin a good blog, too. Well, kittens will. The two older cats know better, already. They just came in and shoved the kitten aside, and ate the whitefish. Smart cats.
LOL! What a riot, Forrest! Wow, that must've hurt like hell! Hey, there's one of your felines in your photo - cool.
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