My Mother is an Alien.

Not really, but she doesn’t speak english.  At least, not as most Americans do.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to dog on her, she’s awesome and I love her so much it’s ridiculous.  But she has a really big problem with word recall and it makes for some hilarious conversations.  Take this one, from a couple of weeks ago:

Mom: Hey, you know that thing you have on your phone?  How do I get that on my phone? I like Bedazzled but I want the other thing too.

Me: Mom, you like Bejeweled, not Bedazzled.  And the game you’re thinking of?  It’s called Chuzzle.

Mom: Yeah, that’s it.  Thanks!

No one else could have had that conversation with her and had any idea what she was talking about.  I’ve had my dad call me and say things like “Your mother was asking me about ‘What was that thing you were talking to Kalypso about? That one thing? You know, right?’  And I have no fucking idea what she means, do you?” “Um. No, not really.”

Anyway, moving on.

Yet another reason I love having cats and not kids:  My cats are 4 and 4 1/2 years old.  Now, if I had a pair of 4 1/2 year old twins instead of cats, my life would be a hell of a lot more difficult. I got very, very sick today.  My temporary crown is almost two weeks old and is starting to loosen around the stump of my tooth.  I’m getting the permanent crown on this weekend but it’s starting to hurt when I brush my teeth or drink something cold.  It hurts a LOT.  So this morning, after brushing my teeth and spending three hours in a considerable amount of pain, I broke down and took a vicodin.  Now, I get prescribed narcotics a couple of times a year, mostly because I’m clumsy and have a habit of falling and dislocating and/or breaking things.  I almost never take them.  The last time I was given prescription for vicodin was just before Christmas and I fell and dislocated my shoulder.  I didn’t take a single pill for that.  So for me to break down and actually take narcotics is kind of a big deal and means I’m hurting pretty damn bad.  Unfortunately, because I never take narcotics, I sometimes get really sick when I take them.  Today was one of those days.  I spent about three hours alternating between vomiting and laying on the tile floor of my bathroom because the cold tile was the only thing that made me feel a little better.

If I had kids the same age as my cats, it would have either freaked them out or they wouldn’t have even noticed.  But I don’t have kids.  I have kittens.  And they both did their best to try to make me feel better.  They sat in the doorway while I was vomiting and when I wasn’t, they both came into the bathroom and purred their little heads off, cuddled with me.

I don’t get sick very often, maybe once a year, but I do get migraines.  And whenever I’m bedridden, hiding in a dark room with a pillow over my head because I can’t bear any noise, light, or movement without pain, they’re there.  They purr.  They cuddle.  They sleep with me and make sure I know I’m not alone.

I do realize that there’s a fair amount of anthropomorphization going on here, but I like to think it’s because they know I don’t feel good and they’re worried about me.  They’re trying to make me feel better.  And for that, if nothing else, I love them.

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About Kalypso

I'm a mess. My brain is a dirty and dangerous place. I'm a punk. I'm a capitalist. I'm a snarky, sarcastic, antisocial nerd. View all posts by Kalypso

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