I called my mother from work yesterday to check in on how she and my daughter were doing on their sewing project. They had been trying to make a pair of pajama pants since my daughter got her sewing machine back in April. The project kept getting delayed due to mechanical and logistical issues and with all those problems, the last thing they needed was any participation from me. It was best to do this while I was tucked away safely at work.
Let me be completely clear when I say that I am sewing box poison. I can't sew a button, hem a pair of pants or (gasp) sew an actual garment. Believe me, I am not overstating my ineptitude in the least. My seventh grade Home Economics final project, a simple ruffled sundress , was so poorly constructed that my teacher announced as I walked the classroom runway in my garment "Here's DG wearing a traditional Lakota Sioux tee pee. Kudos to her for her creativity and cultural awareness."
When I asked my mom how the project was going, she launched into a diatribe about knots in her bobbin, feeder foot issues and a litany of thread related disasters. After the third sewing crisis, I checked out of the conversation and read e-mail until she finished. Her problems were exactly why I don't sew. That, coupled with an inability to cut a pattern or thread a needle. Finally, she reached the end of the sewing disaster list and said. "Oh! I have a treat for your cat!" I thought for a minute before responding. What in the world could she have gotten for Spike the Hotness Monster?
Our cat, Spike the Hotness Monster is the coolest cat on the planet. He makes it very clear that he doesn't live with us, he suffers us for the fools that we are. Being that he is the pantheon of cool, he does not play with toys as that would be undignified and beneath him. When tempted with a toy, his general response is to remain in repose, but to slowly stretch out a single paw and make a half-hearted cupping motion in the toy's direction. Then he turns his head away slowly, with squinted eyes. A gesture that clearly says "you're an asshole for even trying.". So, what was the fabulous treat that she got my unbearably cool feline? "I got him three cans of Fancy Feast!" (cue record scratching noise)
Me: I am NOT feeding that cat canned cat food. It's gross and it smells and I gag through the entire thing. He has lived 10 glorious years on crunchies and he'll probably go another 10, just that way.
Mom: Oh, but you HAVE to see him eat it, he goes crazy for it.
Me: I don't care if he breakdances while eating it, I will not feed it to him.
Mom (unholstering her weapon of mass guilt): But he's so skinny.
Me: Duh, it's summer. He wants to fit in his bikini. Trust me, by Christmas time he'll look like a gray striped Hindenburg. Besides, I had a traumatic episode this morning.
Me: I don't want to talk about it. I feel stupid.
Mom: You can tell me.
Ever the trusting soul, I shared my story. I had woken up that morning in a glorious mood. It was the first cool morning of September and I could feel the 'Back to School' in the air. As such, I was feeling generous toward Brownie the Wonder Dog and decided to add a package of wet food on top of her crunchies. Needless to say, this job usually waits for the kids or my husband, but since he was out of town and it would be a while until the kids were up, I took it on. I had purchased these envelopes of gravy laden stew-like wet food, figuring that if I did have to feed her, I'd just tear and pour. No mess, no stress, no spooning out congealed horse parts. So I grabbed a packet and ripped off the top of the envelope. Well, I guess the crisp air had given me a little too much enthusiasm, because I ripped with gusto and sent food and gravy bits flying in all directions, including the direction of my face and hair.
I stood there frozen as gravy dripped in my eye, lips hermetically sealed for fear of infiltration by the gelatinous goo. The dog whined and shimmied at my feet as I quietly gagged a little. Finally, I poured the food in her bowl and once certain that I had stopped dripping, ran into the house, then into the shower and the comfort of a good scrubbing.
The reaction from my mom was probably not what I was looking for in this situation. I was hoping that she'd adopt a June Cleaver-like tone and tell me "It's OK dear, I'll keep the cat food here and feed it to my cats" But that's not what happened. As it turns out I finished out the remainder of our conversation talking to the linoleum in her kitchen, because I'm pretty sure my mother dropped the phone in a fit of hysterical laughter. As a matter of fact, I'd place a pretty large bet on the fact that she was bent over holding her stomach and convulsing with laughter. Feeling defeated, I weakly told the floor "Now I am definitely not feeding that crap to the cat" . Of course my mother couldn't hear this as she was too busy reveling in my comeuppance. The laughter trailed off and there was a sudden click. Ah, maternal support.
Of course I ended up taking the catfood home. Lucky for me there is a petfood drive starting at work next week. And just guess who will be laughing and reaping the karmic goodwill as she drops three delicious cans of Fancy Feast in the box for the Town of Islip shelter? I'm not saying, but her name rhymes with firey.