I’m trying to be patient. I’m trying to be supportive. I’m trying to be understanding. I’m really trying to be the best damn old married hag of honor I can be. I’m trying….
I’m trying not to smack the shit out of my favorite bride to be.
Gwen has had a tough couple of months both professionally and personally. I won’t go into it, because if there’s one thing I am in life, it’s respectful of other people’s boundaries. *cough, cough* I WILL however divulge that she had to have one of the toes of her kitty amputated. The whole toe. Gone.
Ok, before you get all riled up and put on your “girl, you better not start cracking jokes about amputee kitties because that totally crosses some sort of line” vagina face, I warn you I come by my sense of humor quite honestly.
Me: Hi Mom.
Mom: Hi Honey. Why do you sound frazzled?
Me: I just got off the phone with Gwen. That girl is a hot mess.
Mom: Wedding stuff?
Me: Puhleez. Right now it’s more about runny noses and toe amputations. The poor girl is about to explode with stress.
Mom: *hysterical laughter*
Mom: I could have sworn you said “toe amputations.”
Me: I did. Her cat had to get its toe cut off. Now it has to wear a hood and the whole thing really isn’t going very well.
Mom: She had her cat’s toe amputated…
Me: Yup. The whole toe.
Mom: *snorts and hysterical laughter*
Me: *snickers* I’m pretty sure this isn’t supposed to be funny.
Mom: Woo! Say it again. She had her cat’s toe…
Me: …amputated. *still trying not to giggle* So apparently the cat is really having trouble with the head funnel. She climbs into the litter box, sniffs around, and inadvertently scoops up a mess of litter with the hood. When it’s all full, she panics and tries to lift her head, to find an escape route out of the box. Problem is, all that litter makes the funnel too heavy for the poor thing to move. So the cat gets stuck in the box and has to sit there with a plastic collar full of litter and only seven toes to entertain her until someone comes and rescues her.
Mom: *guffaws and cackles*
Me: You know we really aren’t nice people, right?
Mom: Sure, Honey. Say the part about the toe again…
From what I understand (having not had a chance to view the surgical aftermath myself) the recently vanquished toe was one of the middle guys and its removal has significantly changed the appearance of the paw. So of course my sick little mind envisions the cat chillin’ by the radiator and flashing “the shocker” every time Gwen smacks her thighs and coos, “Here kitty-kitty.”
Or maybe the gato has gone all gangster. While we think she’s just taking an innocent little bath on the window sill, she’s actually flashing her gang sign and recruiting new members from the ‘hood. It is Washington Heights, after all. I bet if we shaved her belly we’d find “Gato Life” tattooed above her de-girlification scars.
You know what? That’s all you get today. I’m feeling stingy it seems. Sure I promised you a tale of wedding planning gone horribly wrong and spent the entire time talking about kitty toes, but that’s just how I roll. I like to keep you guessing. Maybe I’ll tell you all about how under appreciated my mad wedding planning skillz are tomorrow.