So,
it's been a little while...cat has been behaving.
At least this time I knew right from the start what it was; cold weather+cat=cuddle.
This, unfortunately, resembles the 'Daily Show' with a good president (or no election year). In other words, nothing much to write about.
Enter our Anniversary...or should I say Anniversary Weekend.
We decided, as we did not have a cake, that for our first anniversary we should revisit the pineapple drinks from our reception (made by Ohana's, a Disney resort).
The drinks rocked at our wedding, and had it not been for a late Maid of Honor we would have had many more...probably to our regret. They were liquid mana, nectar of the gawds, with rum... a whole pineapple, hollowed out, filled with fruit juice and alcohol...mostly alcohol. (did I mention the rum, there was a lot of it...I didn't think a pineapple could hold a fifth of rum by itself...I was wrong).
So anyway, we tried to reproduce these drinks.
We bought a bottle of rum, a small bottle of coconut rum, and two fresh pineapples (on Friday).
We went to a Halloween party on Saturday.
I was hungover Sunday...and Monday...and a little bit of today.
Needless to say, we didn't get to drinking them until today...I was HUNG OVER! The big one...high school level hung over. I wasn't touching SQUAT on Sunday (our actual anniversary)...and was still feeling it Monday.
So tonight...
The bottle(s) come out...
My Fileting knife comes out...
My wife goes to work...
and the kitchen gets coated.
From one end to the other, everything is sticky.
EVERYTHING.
Enter, the Cat.
She has never smelled pineapple.
She parks behind my wife (on a chair) and stares...and stares...almost demandingly.
I have a picture, of her looking over the back of the chair.
It looks expectant.
It looks petulant,
and it looks predatory...all wrapped up into one pint sized little glare.
We mix the rums,
with the cored mush,
and pour them in the pineapples...
We drink.
We think.
We spit...grimace...and whine.
they tasted like kerosene...
We discover why we are NOT bartenders.
At least we giggle.
When Roxz moves to throw away her drink, she fails to do so.
Not fails to throw it away,
but fails to move.
She is cemented.
She is stuck.
With much 'squelch'-ing, she pulls loose and frees herself.
We dispose of the evidence of our failure (unlike the marriage, with much sticky kissing and giggling we plot next year and how to make the drinks palatable, or at least consumable).
She cleans the floor,
with bleach.
As we kiss, saying how much we love each other, I catch movement from my eye.
It's the cat.
She is rolling on the clean floor. Opening her mouth over the tile, breathing deeply.
Eyes half lidded, she rolls again. At first we think 'pineapple', then realize the whole room reeks of bleach,
and it's concentrated where she's breathing.
She's huffing,
bleach.
We have a teenager,
and she's high...
This is my cat,
This is my cat on drugs....
my cat, like a teenager, has no survival instinct.
