I Canz Open It Meselfs!

Note to self: if kitten is missing, check behind the refrigerator, then check inside the bread maker. If that fails, check inside the fridge, because the cat will likely be cold (and the defrosting chicken will be covered with grey fur). Last week, I found him napping on the counter, in the middle of a pan of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. Let me tell you, deglazing a pet is no easy task.

This cat is either an evil genius who knows how to open doors by magic or the genetic by-product of two first cousins. The jury is still out.

Homesick

To offset the mental anguish caused by my last blog photo post of the sex-ay man and his sex-ay mandals, here is a cuddly bear for you to look at. Eyes all better? Friends again? Um-kay, good!

Ethan is at Camp Grandparent for a couple of days and the silence in the house is deafening. I do not know what to do with myself. When he is home, I think my role is less of a parent, and more of a nurse/grounds supervisor/touch of zoo keeper. Usually by this time of day, there has been at least one bleeding trauma requiring minor first-aid, a fragile object has broken, and I've had to say something along the lines of "we do not dustbust the cat." If that last sentence confuses you, you are obviously the parent of a girl.

Ethan has not been keen on the sleepover thing as of late. To ensure his nighttime safety, we painstakingly packed eighty-seven stuffed animals to take along, including an almost full-sized T-Rex, ingeniously named "Rexy." After the packing was complete, I had to reassure him that in his brief absence, the cat would get fed, the goldfish would not die (and if it does, I know where to get a spot-on body double ... shh!), and that I would not eat all of his Gummi Penguins. OK, so that is a flat-out lie, the first thing I did when he left was render extinct our pantry's entire Gummi Penguin population -- my apologies to PETA. Fortunately, much like the goldfish, this particular item can be easily restocked.

As expected, I got the "I'm sooo homesick! I miss you. Can you come get me?" call last night from Pennsylvania. I told Ethan I missed him too, but that he would be home tomorrow night, and that I loved him. I left out the part about how I had a lychee martini -- or three -- to finish, and therefore should not be driving anywhere.

His reply, "I love you MORE, Mommy."

Heart breaks in a million pieces.

Remind me of this moment when he is thirteen and accuses me of RUINING HIS LIFE!!! because I won't allow him to get a nose piercing with a chain that links to the piercing in his ear and then asks to be dropped off at the mall, half a mile from the entrance.

The Horror Of Mandals

Ethan just asked, "I am wearing kiddals? Is that ok?"

"... Wha?"

He replied, "You know, the kid version of mandals. I know how you hate man sandals."

I explained kids' feet are cute and small and unhairy, therefore it is OK, but he needs to stop wearing them at age eighteen, or sooner, if he starts to look like the guy in the photo above.

** Edited To Add: I am sorry so many of you do not like the photo of my new boyfriend in his footwear. He wants you all to know that he is comfortable with his body, as well as his super-hot stache. That is all.

Poltergeist

Our house is the site of a haunting. This is a very scary story, so please consider yourself warned if you are reading while home alone.

When preparing for a guest's arrival, I placed a plate of three chocolate-chip scones on the coffee table. Ten minutes later, only one scone remained, sitting sadly amidst a few lonely stray chips and errant crumbs.

I asked Ethan if he had any clue where the missing scones had vanished to. His response was that he was not sure, but it *might* have been a ghost that took the scones.

Interesting. I was prepared to believe that perhaps an escaped tiger from the zoo had jumped through the upstairs window, padded down the stairs, and eaten the scones while my back was turned. Or aliens, always prime suspects when something goes missing without explanation. You know, a reasonable explanation.

When pressed for further detail about his otherworldly encounter, Ethan recalled some specifics: maybe this ghost was "wearing a hat from the 1920s ... a pin-striped vest ... and had a long moustache ... you know, longer than grandpa's ... but not as long as the one that weird guy we saw at the Mall yesterday had ... "

I listened intently. "Are you sure this was a MAN ghost?"

Ethan was certain.

"Really. Not a woman?"

NOT a woman. On this point, he was clear. Women ghosts don't eat carbs, I guess.

"Well then, the scone ghost probably knows that lady ghost I saw upstairs the other day. She was wearing a white dress and carrying a parasol. Ethan do you think she likes scones, too? If you ever see her upstairs, why don't you ask?"

His face whitened. Despite repeated assurances that I was joking, he did not find my version of a spectral encounter funny. I have only myself to blame when there is a (mortal) midnight visitor at the foot of my bed this week.

Introducing ...

Thank you for all the name help. We have settled on the perfect moniker for Mr. Kittypants.

Please meet Milo.

On an unrelated topic, before calling the vet in a panic about kitten's "internal bleeding", first make sure to verify that the 1/2 pound of leftover cherry Twizzlers from weekend at Hershey Park can be accounted for. That is all.