This Little Light of Mine

Today, with the lofty idea that as a secretary I should successfully complete office-type stuff at least occasionally, I dabbled in Accounts Payable, Receipt Filing, and Computer-Assisted Suicide. Maybe it was homicide. I just know that by the time I was through dealing with the electric company’s website, I had decided that the Patron Saint of web design is Dr. Kevorkian.

I wanted to report a burned out light in the parking lot. How hard can it be?

Insert picture of black cloud here.

I typed in the electric company’s website. I did the same thing a month or so ago, reported the problem and got an immediate call saying they would fix the problem. Since that time, the company has hired a professional to give their website a whole new look. It’s the look of a strongbox that no safecracker can open. If there is a real person left in that company, they’re hiding like white shoes in winter.

I pulled my keyboard closer to initiate negotiations, and made false promises that I’d read and understood the terms of agreement, the use and care instructions, and the U. S. Constitution. In actuality I’m a little sketchy on the Constitution although I’m fairly certain Prohibition has been repealed, and also that I have the right to stand in line for three hours to vote for somebody I don’t really like.

Computer: For your convenience we have redesigned our website for ease of use.

(What I know now: The term “For your convenience” is code for “Snooki will give makeup tips to the Ladies Bible Class before you will find a real person to help you.”)

Computer: Enter password.

Me: Last time I didn’t need a password.

Computer: (Monotonously) Enter password.

Me: Okay, but I’m making it up.

Computer: If you forgot your password press here. If you forgot your user name press here.

Me: (Typing furiously.) I have a name for you.

Computer: Invalid user name.

Me: (In boldface type.) How about this one?

Computer: If you forgot your. . .

Me: Shut up!

Computer: . . .password, press. . .

Me: (Pressing the big black button and watching the screen go black.) Bazinga!

The light just dawned. I'm going to be in the dark for a long time.

Little Cat Feat

While I was waiting for celebrity gossip to load over my dial-up internet connection, I whiled away the time licking the crumbs off the breakfast plates and perusing the headlines in our local paper.

It seems that our City Council, having exhausted their legislative efforts in a road maintenance fundraising extravaganza known locally as the Pothole Tax, recently decided to proceed with an innovative stroke of legislation involving leash laws for cats.

This idea is known locally as Stupid.

Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Longhorns.

I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.

I was younger at the time, and when a light bulb came on in my head, I didn’t have the wisdom to shoot out the light before it could cause major damage. What a good idea it would be to use the Dachshund’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have?

Turns out that “What a good idea!” and “What objections could Justin have” are the words that drive a cat over the Cliffs of Insanity. Who knew a 10-year-old ball of mottled fur that sleeps in the sun all day had a Ninja-mode over-ride?

Justin put out my little light bulb with a power surge.

I staggered into the house with the leash wrapped around my legs like I’d been shortsheeted with mummy wrappings.

“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”

“Just one?”

“Well, make it a big one.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any spare Type O?”

After all I’ve done for that kid, he still won’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.

Today I have so many scars, I have striped skin. With my faux-tiger motif, I'm all the rage at jungle-themed costume parties.

So next time the lawmakers get together, I’d rather they do something harmless like levy a per child tax on buffet restaurants.

And leave the Kitty Bill of Rights alone.

STOMP!

I made my husband miserable today, which was a relief, because he’d gone about his business in relative calm for several days, and I was afraid he would think I wasn’t taking my job as a wife seriously. Nothing says "I Care" like a sticky note telling him to cut the grass before I braid it.

Several times a week I like to remind him of household projects he’s neglected or impending gift-giving occasions he should prepare for. That way he knows I’m showing interest in his personal obligations.

I have a theory that it doesn’t show proper personal attention to receive an orchid bedecked greeting card that has, “In sympathy for the loss of your pet” scratched through with a black marker and “Happy Anniversary, Honey” scribbled in its place. Advance planning can go a long way toward creating a Hallmark moment that doesn’t conclude with projectiles launched by an offended party and an emergency room visit.

It’s also important not to let his schedule get too lax or he’ll wind up in mischief of some sort and before you know it, he’ll start pulling out power tools, and it will take forever to restore order. The last time the electric sander saw the light of day, the cat lost his eyebrows. A responsible man would have told me that the black button meant ON.

This time, however, my job was easy. All I had to do was say, “Honey, why don’t you see the doctor about that toe?”

After years of marriage, I've come to understand that the word "doctor" transforms the male pschye into something resembling a castoff retread. He regarded me with the same loving gaze I’d seen the time he refused to buy a Poodle so I suggested we attempt a home perm on the Labrador and put bows in his ears.

“Why don’t you buy clothes that fit instead of pants that you have to lose five pounds to wear?”

I love the man, but honestly, sometimes he says things that just don’t make sense.

The offending toe was swollen and sore and gave him the charming, easy gait of Quasimodo thumping through the streets of Paris. It seemed that we were hovering on the brink of something serious, such as me having to take a look at it, so I suggested the unthinkable.

“You could go to the doctor tomorrow on your day off.” Call me crazy, but I thought days off were there to take care of these things. In truth, days off were created so you could cut your grass in time to make your neighbor’s lawn look like Don King’s hair by comparison. Then you whiled away your time in the hammock reading last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

I could see he needed some understanding and encouragement. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

Here’s a clue for newlywed brides. If you want your marriage to last longer than it took to eat the wedding cake, don’t suggest he’s afraid of anything. Especially doctors or other naturally frightening things.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, staggering along beside me. “I just don’t need to go. I’m fine.”

“The last time you were fine it required a course of industrial strength painkillers and a week’s worth of muscle relaxers. I had to do the fireman’s carry whenever you had to go to the bathroom.”

“That was different. That was my back.”

“The only reason I got you to the doctor that time was your muscles spasmed and you couldn’t put up a fight. Son One, the Incredible Hulk, carried you into Urgent Care like you were a statue. You’re just lucky it was too early in the day for the pigeons to be out.”

“Very funny. I’m fine.”

A light breeze came along and he winced at the pressure on his foot. I could see this was going to get ugly if I didn’t pull a clever idea out of the 98% humidified air.

“I guess we won’t need those tickets to STOMP I got for our anniversary.”

“You got tickets to STOMP? They’re always sold out.”

“Yep. A stage full of guys abusing every day items with sticks, all in the name of rhythm. I’ve heard the best part is the finale.”

“I know. They strap trash cans to their feet and don’t even get in trouble with their wives for digging divots out of the linoleum. It’s the best show ever. I guess since you went to all the trouble to get the tickets, I’ll go to the doctor.”

“Good for you. While you’re gone, I’ll go shopping for something to wear.”

He raised one eyebrow. I hate it when he does that. It means he already knows what I’d rather not say.

“Well, I’d have to lose five pounds to wear anything I have now.”

Happy Anniversary, Honey!