Aren’t You Sorry That We Got the Cat?

by Marinka on June 18, 2009

It looks like Husbandrinka thinks that we are on a sitcom where the tag line is “aren’t you sorry that we got the cat?” I’m certain that it will be renewed for many seasons and you should probably pre-order your DVD now.

Like the other day, Nicki shat on our bed. Now, I admit that it is not good, especially if you’re not into that kind of thing, but he seemed to think that it was a sign of the apocalypse. No matter how many times I explained to him that a cat pissing on the bed is so much worse or lied to him that “Confucius says, defecating on bed cat, prosperous home,” he was inconsolable. “Aren’t you sorry that we got the cat?” he asked. Well, I was sorrier that I hadn’t cleaned the litter box the night before, but that’s semantics.

Yesterday afternoon, our trial cleaning lady was going to come by. To recap, we had to let our cleaning lady go because I became super cheap and decided that we could clean the apartment ourselves. That hasn’t worked out so well. After many “discussions” along the lines of “why do you need to use more than one glass a week?” and “would it kill you to scrub the toilet after every use?” Husbandrinka decided to get a new cleaning lady. We asked friends for recommendations. The first cleaning lady we called told us that she would be summering in the Hamptons, returning to NYC in October, which makes me think that either she has amazing talents that Husbandrinka will totally miss out on or that house cleaning is a lot more lucrative than I thought and that I should enroll both of my kids in remedial house cleaning school immediately if not sooner.

So the second potential cleaning lady cleans for a friend of ours and Husbandrinka copied me on their email exchanges. Getting copied on your husband’s emails to friends about a cleaning lady is as good as an Ambien prescription.

“We want someone who is reliable and speaks English,” he wrote. “Reliable” stands for “will not steal”. Unless people are really concerned that the cleaning lady says that she will come on Tuesday but instead will come on Thursday. We want someone who speaks English because for many years we had someone who did not speak ninguna palabra in English to the extent that when I said “hi!” she’d cock her head to the side like the RCA dog.
“She is extremely reliable,” the friend wrote back. “When she finds money in my pockets, she leaves it for me on the table. And her English is perfect.”

I know that this is supposed to be reassuring, but it rang a whole bunch of alarms for me. Like, if I were a thief, I’d totally leave a few quarters that I found in the pant pocket and while everyone was singing my honesty praises, I’d be moving the Faberge eggs out of there. But maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m not reliable, and I’m terrible at the housecleaning bit, does that mean that I wouldn’t make a great cleaning lady? Anyway.

So this Shakespeare of honesty stops by to case the joint, sees Nicki and says “oh. You have a cat?” Like why do people say that? They see a cat on a chair and say “is that a cat?” No it’s a cat hologram. But I’m glad to hear that you thought that it was a real cat! “I’m allergic to cats.” Apparently she gets asthma from cats or something. Honestly, I think it’s just a run of the mill scapegoating, of you ask me. Or scapecatting.

I email Husbandrinka to break the news to him and he responds with, “aren’t you sorry we got the cat?” Seriously? Countless hours of joy for the kids, turds on our bed, how can you put a price on that? It’s almost as though he’s not a cat person.

One year ago ...

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