The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Like you’re living your life and things are pretty good, if you don’t focus too much on the Human Condition and the frailty of life and the fact that the we are all, each one of us, is going to die alone. Unless there is some sort of a mass-casualty incident, of course, but that’s cold comfort too.
But, anyway. You’re living your life and things are going well, tolerable, at least, and then one day one of your cats pees on your bed, and let me tell you, no matter how great the mental health you’ve been enjoying thus far is, you will contemplate suicide.
I know because it happened to me.
The other day, I was at home enjoying life and the Lord’s bounty, when my son suddenly screamed.
“I am going to kill one of these cats!”
Now I don’t like hearing things like that because I noticed that in our society, when a child kills a cat, the trend is to blame the mother. I have no idea why that’s popular these days, but my plan is just to ride out that trend with as low a profile as possible.
“Don’t kill the cats,” I gave him a direct command, but he was already blathering something about one of them peeing on his bed.
“I’m sure no one peed on your bed,” I reassured him in what we will refer to colloquially as Marinka is wrong about many things.
Although I was sure that no one had peed on his bed, there was a puddle of urine on top of it, and that was difficult to explain.
Also, I had to do tons of laundry. Fortunately, my son suffers from a kazillion allergies, so his mattress is encased in some sort of protective (and apparently cat urine non-penentrating) covering.
This is what we in the industry refer to as foreshadowing. (And that is what we in the industry call plagiarism, since Wendi is the one who used the phrase we in the industry first; but all is fair in love and bloggers ripping each other off.)
The next morning I woke up and looked at the empty space in the bed next to me (in case some of you don’t understand how divorce works). Except the empty space in bed next to me was not so empty. The empty space in bed next to me was a puddle. And not a puddle of my tears (in case you don’t understand how divorce works, 2.0), but a pungent puddle.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” I shrieked. And then I sniffed. And the rest is sort of a blur. A urine-soaked blur.
A urine-soaked blur that involved 5:30 am laundry and Googling HOW TO GET FUCKING CAT URINE OUT OF MATTRESS and then going to the store to buy vinegar, baking soda and refill my cyanide prescription.
I’m not really ready to talk about what happened next.
Let’s just say that if there were a way that I could frame the cats for my murder, I would definitely kill myself. Over and over again.