Ease Into The Cat Shit

"Ease into the cat shit," is what my son tells me this morning when I give him my intentions to write about last night's mishap. So that's what I'm going to do - I'm going to ease into the cat shit.

I didn't wake up yesterday with the thought that at some point I'd be cleaning cat shit off a white comforter. That's just how my how blessed I am. Envious yet? 

Having cats has been a joy; often offering more relief than my husband and kid. Sure, I have to scoop shit from a plastic box and occasionally clean the contents of their little kitty tummies from off the floor, but they never leave their dirty fucking socks anywhere or give me shit about taking the trash out - because opposable thumbs. 

Neither of them has ever muttered shit under their breath thinking I couldn't hear them and if they smell like shit, it's because they lick their assholes; a forgivable offense - because of opposable thumbs, dammit! Cats are assholes, this is fact. Mine just provide more relief than agitation. 

Yesterday was a mindfuck. 

Let's "Bob Ross" a painting of yesterday's events together. Not the kind with happy little trees, but the kind where I drag a comforter covered in cat shit out into the living room like Spud from Trainspotting in the scene where he's shit the bed. 

Picture it: I'm chillin' on the sofa, the husband is sitting on the fucking coffee table [again] playing video games, and the son is on the loveseat with headphones on - tuning us out as usual. Each of us, respectively ignoring behavior in the other two. It's brilliant! 

I look at my darling child and in a loving manner say, "I said take a damn shower." He, with complete adoration and respect, rolls his eyes. He gets up 7 minutes later with a real sense of urgency, heading into his bedroom to gather belongings or talk shit under breath. It's one of those two things. 

A few moments later he ambles back into the living room complaining about something. I'm not really listening. If something isn't bleeding is it really even relevant? Wait, did he just say something about my cats? He has my attention. 

The husband is still playing, hasn't moved, doesn't seem to give two shits about shit. This is only funny now as I write this, given the nature of the topic. 

The kid tells me that there is brown stuff on his comforter that wasn't there when we changed his sheets a while ago. He says that the cat took a shit and wiped its ass along the length of his comforter. Naturally, I think my son's a pussy. I'm convinced it's a hairball and my kid is overreacting. Fucking drama queen. Now I have to go inspect. 

Well, it's cat shit. 

I've determined it's cat shit. How you may ask? The same way my kid figured it out. Touch. That's right, we both touched - with our hands - cat shit. Now I have to apologize for calling my kid a pussy because that shit happened too. 

I drop the comforter in front of The Lobster and ask for a little help here while I go and put fresh blankets on my kid's bed. My son, already in the shower, can hear me out in the hallway, confirming the legitimacy of the cat shit. He's laughing. It's authentic cat shit. 

The Lobster hasn't moved and what's worse is he's looked at me as though I have no right to ask for his help. I will not forget this moment. It's immortalized in my word. I snatch the comforter from him. "I don't need your help. By the look you just shot me, it's clear that you mean to say I have no right to ask," I jab. He continues to play. Men reading this: don't let this be you. 

From the shower: "Am I still a pussy?"

Me: "No, kid. Sorry. My bad." 

We'll leave The Lobster out of the rest of this story because when they find his remains, this blog could prove to be problematic. We will discuss some more from the kid though. 

The young one and I spent some time chatting this morning. In and of itself, a rare occurrence. Journalistically, I'm compelled to probe or investigate to ensure our accounts of events lineup with one another. In so doing, I'm often delighted with the revelation of new material. 

Curran told me that when his discovery was first made, he'd thought it was perhaps sand or even mud from his shoes. This tickled me. We'd been inside all day, when would we have had the opportunity to go to the beach and track sand or even mud home? I pictured him sticking his finger into the hairy brown mess on his comforter and raising it to his nose for closer inspection; which incidentally is exactly how that shit went down. 

I'd like to mention how satisfied it makes me each time I type "shit" throughout this blog in any context other than that of bodily waste. It's so fucking perfect! Last night, it was NOT fucking perfect. Nothing was fucking perfect.

Let's recap, shall we?

Last night I did the following: 

Called my kid a pussy - to his face

Asked for the assist in a situation and was SHUT DOWN

Touched cat shit with my bare hands 

Cleaned up after an incontinent cat 

Made angry dinner

Did angry laundry

Took out angry garbage [in the motherfucking rain] 

Cleaned up angry dinner dishes

and scooped the fucking cat box to prevent another disaster

All these things I did alone, except for the touching of the cat shit. Thanks for taking one for the team, kid. These acts all took place in the span of two shitty [smiling again cuz I used "shitty"] hours. I may not be able to reach stuff on the top shelf in the kitchen or open jars with lids that are fastened too tightly, but I can think of a few things that I can do just fine on my own for a couple of weeks. 

Men: Don't let this happen to you...