Wednesday, January 1, 2003
Dear Diary:

2003 began for us around 3:30 when our cat Zubby began singing the "I Have a Well-Gummed and Very Spitty Dead Thing in My Mouth and You Don't" aria from that well known feline opera "Kill, Pussycat, Kill, Kill".

I turned on my bedside lamp to confirm that Zubby actually had something in his mouth and that this was not merely a rehearsal. Yep, he had a small mouse. I turned towards the spousal unit to urge him out of bed to deal with this when I saw that he had pulled a pillow over his face to block out the light.

This very subtle move was his way of saying, "Look, it's dead, let's go back to sleep and we'll mop up in the morning."

Alrightie then.

I turned off the light and in a few moments was back at that stage just before sleep when I heard skittering sounds.

Uh oh.

Clearly I had mistaken the "I Have a Well-Gummed and Very Spitty Dead Thing in My Mouth and You Don't" aria for the "I Have a Well-Gummed and Very Spitty SEMI-Dead Thing in My Mouth and You Don't and I'm Going to Play With It" aria.

Uh oh.

All couples portion out certain duties. In our marriage it is the spousal unit's duty to deal with Dead Things, Semi-Dead Things and kitty puke. He'd heard the skittering so he grabbed the flashlight from the bookcase by the end of the bed and chased after Zubby, following him in here to my office.

In the corner cowered a very tiny, very spitty mouse, its fur in Rod Stewart spikes from all the gumming it had received. The spousal unit grabbed it quickly by the tip of its tail and scampered with it to the door, depositing it outside on the fire escape. It was raining.

Zubby chased after the spousal unit, protesting loudly about how he had been robbed of his Well-Gummed and Very Spitty Semi-Dead Thing. The spousal unit left the door to the fire escape open for a few seconds. The cat noted that it was raining. You could see the wheels grinding as Zubby carefully weighed the value of the Very Spitty Semi-Dead Thing against the discomfort of going outside in the cold rain.

Comfort won. Zubby flopped on the floor and began to vigourously lick his nether regions, signaling that the Very Spitty Semi-Dead Thing really wasn't that cool a toy anyway and he had much, much more important things to do.

And that was how our year began.

Jan. 1 is the day we take our Christmas tree down. The spousal unit loves the tree and all it represents, so I have a very hard time convincing him that it has to go. If this was left solely to him, I sweartogawd we would have a rust-coloured pining for the fjords tree still up in our living room come June.

I could do it by myself, but I like that we do it together. It seems a fitting way to close off a year past and begin a fresh one. He has promised that we'll do it tonight.

Ethel, our Christmas spider, has been busily extending her web over the top quarter of the tree, so when the tree goes, so will a big hunk of her home. I hope she doesn't consider this a breach of our mutual non-aggression pact.

I would so like to have 2003 be a year of peace.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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