Dudey's Dooties

Ms N came back from a three-night business trip today, so naturally I was up early this morning cleaning all of the parts of the house I had failed to clean during the previous three nights.

The kids were at my babies' momma's apartment overnight, so I had no worries of having to break from any tasks to go wake my son up for the third time or anything like that. Today was "schlep your kids to work" day, so I did have to pick up my daughter on my way to the train (which we missed by 2 minutes anyways), but other than that the morning was mine.

I had my schedule planned out perfectly: Get up at 5:15, go feed the cats, pull the sheets off the bed, get the extra bedding stuff out of my son's room (he got new sheets on Sunday, the old ones were still in a pile on his floor), take all the aformentioned linens downstairs, put the sheets and pillowcases in the wash, scoop up the cat crap from the litter boxes, go back to the kitchen and get the dishes, take the trash outside (it did, after all, have a bag of cat crap in it), put the sheets in the dryer, straighten up the coffee table, clean up the rest of the stuff in my son's room, take a shower, fold the two loads of laundry that I did on Tuesday, put my portion away, put my son's portion in his room, put Ms N's portion in a nice stack, brush my teeth, gather my stuff for work, get the sheets out of the dryer, make the bed, and head out by 7:25.

You know, a typical morning.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work as I planned. I didn't have time to bring the sheets back up and make the bed, and I left at 7:32, hence the missed train.

Oh, and one more thing ...

Ms N came back home and Leo, the primary cat, was acting a bit strange. Dude, the emergency backup cat, didn't so much as come to the living room to see her. She mistook the attention Leo was paying to her as some sort of "I missed you" gesture. (Ridiculous, I know ... cats don't miss anybody unless they are not being fed. I doubt the cats even notice that we're gone.) When she got upstairs, however, Leo ran straight to my son's door and started meowing.

That's when it dawned on her ... Dude wasn't being lazy or indifferent; he didn't come to see her because he was stuck behind a closed door.

Apparently, while I was in straightening up the room, Dude wandered in. He just failed to wander out before I left.

I got home soon after Ms N and she told me about Dude's traumatic ordeal. He seemed to be recovering well. Then again, Dude always seems to be doing well. If you translate his meows, he says, "Dude".

As I walked into my son's room, I quickly realized that Dude had, ahem, done his dooty while trapped therein. You can't blame him - when nature calls you can't send it to voicemail. The problem is he's a cat, and cats have some sort of turd-topping instinct. When dogs mess on the floor, it's always easy to find (especially if you have bare feet); they let their chips lay where they fall. Cats, though, are modest.

It took a few minutes of searching, but I finally found them ... neatly tucked underneath my son's stuffed turtle. Now matter how hard I try, I can't stop picturing the cat pushing that turtle across the floor just to have something under which he could hide his dooties.

Comb 'em if you got 'em

Last night I had the most uplifting experience a middle-age guy like myself can get (and still talk about publicly, that is).

There comes a point in every boy's life where he looks at older men and realizes "Oh, crap. Someday I may become just as bald as they are!"

Like the platypus, androgenetic alopecia (or male-pattern baldness for those of you who didn't seek out that article on Wikipedia) is proof that God has quite the sense of humor.

The problem is you have no way of knowing if the joke's on you.

It's very unnerving, really. You can spend decades hiding that inner fear. One day life is all fine and dandy, and then you see an uncle you haven't seen in a few years and suddenly you're in front of the bathroom mirror tracing your hairline with your finger to see if it's moved since the last time you checked.

My father, himself part of God's punchline, describes the part in his hair as "very wide." Growing up with him was like watching a stadium roof retract very, very, very slowly. Before I was even out of high school my brother's hair was like Mary-Kate Olsen. (And I do not mean long and blonde - that's Mary-Kate's hair. I mean his hair was no longer thin, it was emaciated.) He finally gave up combing and took up shaving.

Needless to say, it was not the most comfortable environment in which to remain vain.

So last night I got a haircut. After trimming the sides and taking down the length, without so much as asking the stylist grabbed that other set of shears - you know, the ones that cut some hairs out while leaving others in place.

It seems there was a problem with the hair atop my head. And while past performance is no guarantee of future results, it was promising, nonetheless.

My hair was too thick.

Mr. E's medical tip of the day

Replace your Zoloft with Cialis.

Enraged? Become enraptured, instead. Stop giving the finger when you have much better things to give. Turn your F You's into F Me's. Cialis works up to 36 hours, so you don't have to plan, you don't have to rush, you don't have to worry about time. The next time a relaxing moment turns into the wrong moment, you can be ready. While Cialis does nothing to stop the anxiety, Great Smokies does it make it more enjoyable!

Cialis is not for everyone. Do not take Cialis if you are single and unattractive. Before replacing your Zoloft, consult your physician to determine if you are healthy enough to be angry. Anger lasting for more than four hours is the sign of a serious condition which requires immediate treatment, meaning you'd better hope to God that you didn't say anything stupid to your significant other during your fit of frustration, as she is the one who administers said treatment. Piss her off and she'll tell you to go treat yourself, you F-ing A-hole.