Cat of the Year

On Friday when I got home from work, my cat Stockton was in the driveway, waiting to greet me. I got out of the car and watched as Stockton began twisting and turning on the concrete.. this is our daily ritual.

I get home. Stockton rolls around on the ground. I find it endearing. So endearing, that I think EVERYONE should get to enjoy his cuteness. So, I did what any proud mother/pet owner would do... I got out my camera to exploit him.

I ran inside after capturing his awkward/awesomeness to show The Husband.

"Look! Look what our cat does when I get home! Tell me its adorable... tell me its charming... tell me I'm right to think its hilarious! "

I proceeded to show The Husband my video.

I was expecting a big reaction. Side splitting laughter, at the very least. But no. All I got was this:

(bored, monotone) "Hm. Upload it to YouTube. Maybe you'll get a million hits."

Excuse me? No one reacts to my exploitation of my pet with weary disinterest!!! I was outraged!!!

"Fine then!" I said, "Consider it done!"... and I stormed off.

What The Husband should know about me is that I am a woman of my word. Perhaps he does not think our cat is hilarious... but I can guarantee that I will NOT share my trillions of dollars I get from my MILLIONS... no... GAZILLIONS of YouTube hits I get from my cat video. Cats are very popular right now, Stockon is sure to be a big deal.

Consider it done, Husband. Consider it done.

I present to you.... Stockton... Cat of the Year:

Watch it here.

Whatever happened to cool?

It seems like everything was so much cooler when I was younger. Trees were bigger (and cooler), rocks were cooler, and playing outside with nothing but a few sticks and my imagination was WAY cooler than it is now. When did things start becoming so un-cool?

One summer my younger brother Jake and I spent the week at my Grandma’s house in North Ogden.

One day, while we were playing outside (with rocks and sticks and imaginations) we spotted a real, live MOOSE.

A moose! Walking up and down the paved streets of North Ogden Utah. We were ecstatic, as you can imagine. I had never been so close to a moose in my entire life. Jake and I hurriedly ran inside to tell Grandma about our encounter. She (for our protection, I’m sure) forbade us from leaving the house.

So, we did the next best thing to interacting with a moose… we found a window.

We smashed our faces up against the window and watched the towering moose wander around the neighborhood. He looked like he was having the time of his life, being the center of attention of this little suburban neighborhood. I half expected him to pull on his tap shoes and do a little soft shoe number for us.

Once the moose was out of sight and Grandma thought it was safe, we were released from the confines of the house. We immediacy ran out front to see if we could catch one last glimpse of the moose. We searched up and down the street. Jake spotted him first.

Jake: “Torrey look! There he is!”

The moose was just turning the corner. We desperately wanted to follow him, but we were afraid we would get in trouble by doing so. Instead, we sat under a tree on the rocks out front and speculated about the origins of the moose.

(Jake - Bottom Row, far right. Me - Second Row, second from the right).

Jake: “Where do you think he came from?”

Me: “The forest, of course.”

Jake: “Cool!”

Me: “Did you see how long his legs were?”

Jake: “I bet he could beat up Dad.”

Me: “I doubt it.”

Jake: “We should name him Gonzo.”

Me: “You want to name EVERYTHING Gonzo.”

Jake: “It’s a cool name.”

Me: “What if he’s a girl?”

Jake: “Gonzo can be a girls name.”

Our conversation continued on with a million other similar comments and retorts until a man in a uniform approached us.

Man: “Hey kids, have you by chance seen a moose around here?”

(Classic child abductor material. Am I right? Really though, if I were to nap a kid I would definitely go with the whole “I’ve lost my moose” routine. Because it works!)

Jake and I looked at each other, eyes wide and full of excitement.

Me: “Yeah, we have, and we can take you to him!”

We hopped off the rock and without giving a second thought to Grandma and what she might be feeling when he grandkids turned up missing, we began the great moose hunt.

The street in front of Grandma’s house was on a hill. We had last seen the moose at the top of the hill, so we turned right and headed that way. As we began our trek, we quizzed the man.

(Good idea, question the strange man AFTER you’ve left the safety of your grandma’s yard.)

Me: “Is that moose your pet?”

Man: “Uh, no. I’m with animal control. I got a call to come take care of the moose.”

Jake: “Is his name Gonzo?”

Man: “Um… maybe. I don’t know.”

Me: “What are you going to do with him?”

Man: “Well, first we need to find him. Then we’re going to help him take a nap… with a tranquilizer gun.”

Jake: “Cool!”

Me: “Will it hurt him?”

Man: “No, it will just knock him out so we can transport him away from humans.”

At this point we had made it to the top of the street. Suddenly, I saw a big tall ball of fur out of the corner of my eye!

Me: “There he is!”

The moose was in a nearby yard, just standing there, looking all sad and confused. Poor little moose didn’t know what to do with all of those driveways and mailboxes surrounding him.

Jake and I started to run toward the moose. The uniformed man stopped us.

Man: “Hang on there, don’t get too close. Just because he’s in this neighborhood doesn’t make him any less of a wild animal.”

The man radioed his position to his fellow Animal Controllers.

Suddenly, an entire SWAT team of Animal Control personnel arrived on the scene. They were rappelling from the roofs of houses, some parachuted in, others climbed out of man holes… ok, not really. But a bunch of them really did show up (in boring ol’ cars).

One of uniformed man’s associates quickly got out the tranquilizer gun and propped it up on his car. He took careful aim at the gigantic beast…. And then he shot it.

The moose didn’t seem to notice that he had been shot. He slowly started to walk around the yard, but he quickly became drowsy and soon tumbled to the ground.

My eyes immediately welled up with tears and I began to cry uncontrollably. The uniformed man tried to console me.

Man: “It’s ok, he’s not dead…. he’s just asleep.”

I was not convinced. I had been pretty trusting of the uniformed man up to this point, but how was I to know his buddy hadn’t switched out the tranquilizer dart with a bullet at the last moment? The uniformed man approached the moose and poked him to ensure it was safe to be near.

Man: “Look, he’s still breathing. See? Do you want to come touch him?”

Jake swiftly ran over to the moose and began petting him.

Jake: (whispering in the moose’s ear) “Hey Gonzo, it’s ok, no one’s gonna hurt you, they just want to help you get home.”

I was still wary of the whole situation, but I wasn’t going to let my little brother get all of the face time with the moose. I inched closer and closer to “Gonzo” until I found myself kneeling by his side, petting him.

Man: (grabbing a tuft of Gonzo’s hair and pulling it out) “Here, keep this, as a way to remember him”.

The uniformed man gave each of us a hand full of moose hair.

By this time Grandma had realized we were missing and had come to find us. She couldn’t get too upset at us for running off, after all, a 900 pound moose had just been shot right before our eyes. Tranquilizer gun or not, that is a pretty horrific experience, especially when strange men started ripping the poor animals hair out.

So, instead of scolding us, Grandma took us home and gave us Ziploc bags for our moose hair and ice cream cups to eat.

When we got home from our exciting week with Grandma, I carefully laid my packaged moose hair in my top dresser drawer. I would often retrieve Gonzo’s hair and just sit and look at it. I never took it out of the baggie though, I was too scared that the air would damage it and it wouldn’t last as long (and now that I'm reflecting back on this story, I'm pretty sure something was mentioned by one of the Animal Control people about the moose being rabid... so I could have been subconsciously afraid of contracting rabies by touching the hair... yes, I know that is impossible... but, just sayin'.)

Man, that moose hair was SO COOL. Probably the coolest.

What sort of things did you used to find SO cool?

Late Night Conversations x 2

(While lying in bed, in the dark, as The Husband is about to fall asleep.... this is when I have my deepest thoughts.)

Me: "Hey."

Husband: (clearly annoyed) "What?"


Me: "I get confused. What's the difference between a paraplegic and a quadriplegic?"

Husband: "Are you being serious?"

Me: (slightly offended by The Husbands total disregard for my deep question) "What? It's confusing sometimes, don't you think its confusing?"

Husband: "What does 'quad' mean?"

Me: "I don't know."

Husband: "Think."

Me: "Um.... (thinking) Four? Four."

Husband: "Good. So a quadriplegic is?...."

Me: (light bulb) "Someone who can't use their FOUR limbs!"

Husband: "Good.. and that would make a paraplegic?...."

Me: "Someone who can't use TWO of their limbs!!!"

Husband: (dripping with sarcasm) "You're SO smart."

Me: "Rude."

(After some more time pondering....)

Me: "So... if 'quad' means 'four' ..... that must mean that 'para' means 'two'. So... if someone can't use just ONE of their limbs... does that make them an unoplegic?"

(Insert seemingly endless uncontrollable laughter from The Husband here.)

Husband: "Seriously?"

Me: "Yes, seriously. 'Uno' means 'one', and 'plegic' means.... 'can't use' or something like that... So, logically, a person who 'can't use' 'one' of their limbs would be an 'unoplegic'."

Husband: "Or, more appropriately, you could say they have a BROKEN ARM or a BROKEN LEG."

Me: (rolling eyes...) "Semantics. It's a 'po-tay-to', 'po-tah-to' sort of thing.... Unoplegic, broken leg. Same difference."

Husband: "Good one babe. Good one."

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is our relationship in a nutshell. Clearly, I'm the brains of this operation.

A Lost Art

With the exception of being able to pee standing up, I am a stalwart proponent of the idea that women can do anything men can do (and technically, we CAN pee standing up… it just comes with slightly itchy and uncomfortable consequences).

But, I've noticed, that as the equality of the sexes strengthens, chivalry (remember this?) has become a lost art.

Did you know that men used to open doors for women?

I’ve taken to pushing the button that opens the doors for you (intended for those in wheel chairs). This is how it goes down:

Me (pushing button): Oh my! (flirtatiously) Why thank you, what a gentleman. You know, you’re a dying bred.

Handicap Button (as door opens): Buzzzzzzz.

Me (coyly): (giggles) I am flattered, but you know, I’m a married woman.

Handicap Button: CLICK!

Me: Thanks again, have a great day!

Handicap Button (as door closes): Swoosh.

Courtesy, Generosity, Valor, Gallantry, Thoughtfulness. Women swoon over men who emulate these traits.

Did you know that my Great Aunt had NEVER filled up her car with gas until after her husband passed away? A 70-something year old woman with a good 50 plus years of driving experience under her belt and she had never filled up her own car. Why? Because it used to be part of her husband’s chivalrous Saturday ritual: Get up, mow the lawn, wash the cars, fill the cars up with gas. What a hunk!

Can you imagine being the gas attendant working the day Aunt Carmen had her first pump experience?

Gas Attendant (after noticing a car has been sitting at the pump for nearly half an hour): (knocking on driver’s window) Excuse me, ma’am?

Aunt Carmen (rolling down window): Oh finally! I need a fill up and (handing attendant a $5 bill) my windows could use a good washing as well.

Gas Attendant: (giving back money) I’m sorry Ma’am, but this is a self-serve gas station. You can pay at the pump or inside.

Aunt Carmen (obviously “put-out”): Oh. Well, that’s not a problem. (saying more to convince herself as she gets out of car) I can do this. Now, let’s see… (starts pushing buttons… removes gas pump and looks around precariously) … this must go…. HERE! (shoves gas pump in wheel well).

Gas Attendant: Uh…. Ma’am….

Aunt Carmen: Now, to pay! (gets out $20 bill and tries to feed into credit card reader… after some struggling) Why isn’t this working?! (bill falls to the ground in a crumpled up wad) I know! It must not take bills. (gets into coin purse and attempts to put coins into credit card reader).

Gas Attendant: (rolling eyes) Here… let me help you.

Epic, right?

I’ve always day dreamed about getting ready to cross the street at a busy intersection in a rainy New York City (in my favorite pair of Louis Vuittons…. this is a day dream, remember?…) when the reincarnate Sir Walter Raleigh, standing next to me, lays his coat over the dubious puddle in my way so as to protect me (and my designer shoes) from getting soaked.

Giving women flowers, helping us out of cars, offering us your jacket, holding the umbrella, introducing us to your acquaintances. THIS is what separates the men from the boys and please, BELIEVE you me when I say this, the world could do with fewer boys and more men. Believe. You. Me.

Well, as you can imagine… as these feelings of frustration at the absence of gallantry in our society have been on my mind, I haven’t been at all shy about vocalizing my opinions…. to The Husband.

It didn’t dawn on me how well The Husband listens until I got into my car Monday morning to drive to work. As I was backing out of the driveway, I glanced at my dashboard and noticed that I had a full tank of gas. Suddenly my mind was flooded with flashes of exceptionally kind things The Husband had done for me this past weekend. He opened the door for me at church, he made me dinner, he gave me a foot rub, he got me a glass of water in the middle of the night, and now, he filled up my car with gas?!

Although he didn’t shower me with flowers or spoil me with jewels… I realized that I have got a serious hero on my hands. Someone’s getting lucky tonight.

**** (Totally relevant side note!) ****

As I’ve been writing this post, this song has been stuck in my head (Which is not surprising, considering I have a congenital play list called “Show Tunes” continually playing on repeat in my brain):

WARNING – this is not the most wholesome of songs… listen at your own risk.

End of relevant side note… End of relevant post.

Late Night Conversations

Last night as I was lying in bed I turned to The Husband:

Me: “Hey, what’s the name of the Jetson’s dog?”

Husband: “What?"

Me: "The Jetsons. What was the name of their dog? I can't think of it."

Husband: "Uh….. Leroy, I think.”

Me: “What?! No, EL-roy is the brother, the dog’s name is (thinking…. thinking…) Astro!”

Husband: “Oh, yeah.”

Me: (singing) “Meet George Jetson! His son Elroy. Daughter Judy. Jane, his wife…”

Husband: “Boy.”

Me: “What?”

Husband: “His BOY Elroy. Its ‘boy’ because it rhymes.”

Me: “I don't get it. What's it supposed to rhyme with?"

Husband: "BOY. ELROY."

Me: "Oh…. (after some time) And what was the name of the robot Maid?”

Husband: “I have no idea.”

Me: “Something that starts with an ‘R’..”

Husband: “Yeah, that sou..”

Me: (interrupting) “ROSIE!”

Husband: “Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Me: “Yeah.”

After some silence, sitting in the dark.

Husband: “What made you think about the Jetsons?”

Me: “I don’t know… I just think about them a lot.”

Husband: “Really? That’s weird.”

Me: “Well, I think its because I wish I had that cool contraption they have, where a tube drops down over you and then five seconds later it has done your hair and make-up and has dressed you in the cutest outfit ever.”

Husband: “Weird.”

Me: “Yeah, I guess so. I can’t help it though. I always think about the Jetsons, probably on a daily basis. My mind just always wanders to them. The Jetsons and Rescue Rangers…. (Thinking again…) Hey, what’s the name of the girl mouse on Rescue Rangers?”

Husband: “Gadget. Because she is always fixing everything.”

Me: “Oh yeah… and wasn’t there a fat one too?”

Husband: “Monterey Jack… because he liked cheese.”

Me: “Oh yeah!”

After more silence.

Me: “Wasn’t there another one? I mean, besides Chip and Dale?”

Husband: “No, I think it was just the four of them.”

Me: “Really? I swear they had like, a little guy who was their friend.. like a bug.”

Husband: “Yeah, I think Gadget had a pet lightening bug.”

Me: “What was his name?”

Husband: “I don’t know… Buzz or something…”

Me: “Buzz? That’s a dumb name for a lightening bug. It should have been something like ‘Blinky’, or something… “

Husband: “Yeah, that’s it. I think it was Blinker.”

(SIDE NOTE: His name is actually ‘Zipper”, he’s a green fly and he is NOT Gadget's pet.)

More silence.

Me: “Who was the bad guy?”

Husband: “I don’t know… I think there were lots of bad guys. It changed every episode.”

Me: “FAT CAT!”

Husband: “What?”

Me: “Fat Cat! He was their arch nemesis.”

Husband: “If you say so.”

Me: “I’m positive about this one.”

More silence in the dark.

Husband: (singing) “Chi-chi-chi-CHIP and DALE! Rescue Rangers. Chi-chi-chi-CHIP and DALE!”

Me: (Singing echo) “Rescue Rangers!”

More silence.

Husband: “I can see why you think about Rescue Rangers a lot.”

Me: “Really?”

Husband: “Yeah, that song gets stuck in your head.”

Me: “I know.”

Longest silence yet.

Me: “Hey, remember that one with Baloo?”

Husband: “The Jungle Book?”

Me: “No, the one where they flew a plane… (thinking… thinking… ) Tailspin!”

Husband: “Go to sleep.”

Me: “Yeah… I think about that one a lot too.”

Husband: “GO. TO. SLEEP.”