My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's locked herself in the master closet, and from what I can surmise thus far, she's sitting on the floor rocking back and forth, while simultaneously sobbing and breathing into a paper bag.
If you've lost a few years of your life reading this here blog, then you are very well aware of the fact that my stupid mo-ther doesn't "do" nature. As a matter of fact, I've heard her describe herself as the Zsa Zsa Gabor character on Green Acres. You know...New YORK is where I'd rather be...and all of that.
(Let's face it, folks. If they made one big enough, I'm pretty sure that my mo-ther would install herself into a big plastic bubble much like the one seen in the 1972 sleeper hit "Boy in the Plastic Bubble" staring John Travolta. The problem with this, of course, is that Mo-ther has a propensity for sweating profusely whenever the temperature rises above that of a meat locker, so you can imagine the logistics of a rotund woman in a full-on flop sweat wearing eighteen year old sweatpants...all while encased in Saran Wrap.)
But I digress.
Yesterday morning, the old lady finished her blog reading and decided to head into the kitchen for some holiday baking. As she rounded the corner out of the office, this is what she saw:
Her first thought was (and I quote): "Why are those cats eating bird food and wearing feathers?"
And then she crept closer to the window for a closer look:
I was happily snoozing on my perch, and before you could say "Assisted Living Facility", my stupid mo-ther managed to throw herself into a massive panic attack while knocking over the Christmas tree, stubbing her toe on a dining room chair, and then finally collapsing into a weepy heap under the kitchen sink, where, I assume, she thought the can of Pledge would protect her.
At first I didn't bother to alter my position, since falling Christmas trees, loud profanity, copious weeping, and drama are de rigeur for a Wednesday. But then I decided to take a look for myself in the event that Jeffrey Dean Morgan had finally decided to come for a visit and Mo-ther got caught with her head in a vat of potato salad and had not managed to take care of that unfortunate little moustache problem .
It is here that I must confess that the first words out of my mouth were Holy $(-)!* because I never would have expected to see two gi-NOR-mous wild turkeys helping themselves to the bird food.
All is well, though, since (after donning my outside shoes) I politely explained to them that although it is illegal to discharge a firearm within the city limits of Mishawaka, I was pretty sure that my Aunt Chrissy would have no problem whatsoever grabbing their sorry asses by the tail feathers and dragging them twelve feet to the south, which just happens to be county property and not within the "don't shoot wild turkeys in the knees to make them go away" jurisdiction.
Then I went and loaded my little pink pea shooter for effect, and this seemed to get the message across quite nicely.
(Before you call PETA, may I just point out that my stupid mo-ther's biggest nightmare is that the Chic-Fil-A cows will show up one night and stuff her into her Weber grill, so we are now on a "Beef only once a month" regimen that has completely destroyed my fun. I used to love a nice Cowboy Rib-eye with an impertinent little Merlot every Monday night, but alas, it is not to be.)
So THAT is why there was precious little stitching yesterday, as well as why we will NOT be openly talking about how much my mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy hate turkey. We did, however, manage to finish watching the entire box set of The Tudors, so I can only assume that we'll be on to The West Wing before the week is through.
I hope that you have a wonderful Thursday, my dear friends. Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted pal,
Stewey
