So this morning, about 7AM on a Sunday, the asshole cat wants out. First he starts meowing. I’m gradually learning to filter this out while asleep. He starts wakeup-Lev-tactic-number-two. Find a cardboard box and start eating it. Loudly. Scratching at it helps. Because Lev finds this noise extremely irritating while he’s trying to sleep. “Okay, fine! Goddamned cat!” Up, get I, and literally kick the cat out of the house. Sorry PETA, but I do mean literally.
But first, I have to stomp my feet all the way to the front door. You see, if the asshole cat thought I was headed for the kitchen, he’d sprint on ahead of me so he can get there first and start begging for food. But at 7AM when the house is all dark, and Lev is all groggy & sleepy, it’s fun to walk reaaaaaally sloooooowly in front of Lev’s feet, in the hopes Lev will trip and fall and knock himself unconscious. I honestly believe making humans injure themselves is hilarious to cats. So I stomp my feet and pretend I’m really pissed off and after him. Actually I’m not pretending about the pissed off part, but I’m pretending about the “after him” part. It’s the only way to get him to hurry his little ass towards the door, and humans can’t see in the dark. Which you’d think he’d have learned sometime during the last 187 times I’ve stepped on him.
On to the kicking him out part. Well, it’s not like I actually pick him up and drop-kick him like a football, as tempting as it is. Even though he’s been whining about going outside, now that he has me up and waiting on his beck and call, he likes to sit in the doorway, look around for awhile and see if he really wants to go outside. So using the side of my right foot I rap him in the ass, sending him on his merry little feline way. I also quickly shut the door. lest he play that game. Oh no you don’t. The rule is, I’ll get up exactly once to let you out during the time I go to bed and am officially up for the day. None of this changing your mind and coming back in, just so Lev can fall back to sleep, wait 10 minutes and decide “I wasn’t ready the first time. I really do want to go out this time. No really. I really will this time. Just get up one. more. time. Or I’ll eat this cardboard box.”
So I stagger my way back to bed, jump in and cocoon myself in the covers, because it’s frickin’ freezing in the house, and now I’m freezing again.
About 3.5 minutes later the roommate (henceforth, TR) comes home. TR works nights, just so you know. The asshole cat couldn’t possibly have waited three point fucking five minutes longer. “Oh no. That wouldn’t be any fun having TR let me out. I have to wake up Lev.”
I’m lying there, freezing, irritated… “screw it. I’m getting up, making some coffee and bother TR for awhile” (my favorite pastime is pestering my roommate. Just ask him. According to him, living with me is just like living in communist China. He calls me Mao Tse-Lev.)
I’m out of coffee! Damn it, damn it, damn it! I was going to get some yesterday. To TR:
“Take me to the store! I need coffee!” (I know, that sounded demanding, but it’s 7AM and I’m groggy & grumpy and what’s the point of having a roommate if you can’t just demand they do things?) Then we begin one of our favorite dances.
“I’m tiiiiiiired. I just got hooooooome. I just want to relaaaaax.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’ll only take five minutes, and then it’ll be all over.”
“Why don’t you go?”
“I’m tired and I haven’t had coffee. That’s worse than driving drunk.”
“You were going to get coffee yesterday. It’s your fault you don’t have coffee. Live with it.”
“Nooooooo! C’mooooooon, just take me.” (yes, I really do use a childish whiney voice. Sometimes it’s all that works.)
“No! I’m tired and I’m staying right here.”
I decide to retreat and give him a few minutes while I think up a new tactic. TR says,
“My email isn’t working again.”
Ding! Lightbulb goes off over my head.
“I know. I disabled it. I’ll turn it back on if you take me to the store.”
Actually, I’ve never messed with his email. Somehow he manages to mess it up on his own every so often. Or maybe it’s the program he uses. But I always tease him about the 500 porn emails he gets every day, and he always suspects I’m maliciously disabling his email. I’m the one who usually ends up fixing it.
“Why would you do that? That’s so mean!”
“I can’t believe you force me to use extortion!”
“C’mon, turn my email back on!”
“No! Not until you take me to the store.”
TR remains silent, sullen, pulls down the help menu on the computer and starts reading. I see what he’s doing and feign that I’m about to faint.
“You’re actually reading the instructions?? Oh my God.”
“Shut up! I’m going to figure this out on my own.”
A few minutes go by. I helpfully suggest a few worthless bits of email advice, while also suggesting he’s never going to figure out what I’ve done. TR begins to suspect maybe I didn’t really disable it, but he might need my help anyway. I can tell I’m slowly wearing him down. Then TR says,
“OK fine! I’ll take you to the store. But I’m really hungry now so I’m going to get some stuff and make the absolute best dish ever. You are so going to love this.”
A small alarm bell goes off in my head. TR said “make.” As in, cook? Did I remember to check the batteries in the smoke detector? See, TR never cooks, despite my nagging. TR eats what Lev cooks. Or TR microwaves what Lev cooked earlier and froze. Or TR eats something that’s edible right out of the box. Sometimes when TR is starving, TR boils water in the tea-kettle and pours it into a styrofoam instant noodle soup cup. TR does not cook. On those really rare occasions TR decides to warm something up on the stove, TR believes “faster is better” and turns the flame on full blast. By full blast I mean, flames covering not only the bottom of the pan, but also the sides of the pan, and possibly even coming up over the top of the pan, and approaching the ceiling. TR does not like waiting for something to warm up. Then TR leaves the room (because he hates waiting) and Lev rushes into the kitchen and turns down the flame before the house fills with smoke. Again.
Anyhoo. TR has been spending time at his sister’s house, watching her kids. Apparently, Sis makes what is the most fabulously tasty dish in the whole wide world. And now TR is going to share this culinary wonder with me, thereby proving, as he has many times in the past insisted, that he can cook. And he’s damn good at it.
On the way to the store TR is getting increasingly excited about this dish he’s going to make. Without my asking, because I’m still tired & groggy & without coffee and now feeling a little off-balance what with the “make” comment, TR volunteers,
“I’m going to get some chili, some spaghetti, and some hotdogs.”
“I made chili a while back. It’s in the freezer. We also have plenty of spaghetti.”
“No! I mean the good stuff. The stuff that comes in cans.”
I’m struck dumb. Not only at the slashing insult I’ve just received, but also because I have no idea what he’s planning on doing with Spaghettios, hotdogs & chili. Actually, I have a pretty good idea. Sorta like how you have an idea that bile is coming up from your stomach and you’re about to spew. Like that.
Well, no reason to keep you in suspense.
“You’re making Spaghettios with hotdogs, aren’t you?”
“Not Spaghettios! Real spaghetti!”
“That comes in a can? OK, we won’t call it Spaghettios then. You’re getting canned spaghetti in 'tomato sauce.”
“Yeah, it’s great!”
“It’s the same as Spaghettios, except it’s not little rings. It’s also what you feed kids when they won’t eat anything else. Adults don’t eat that shit unless it’s 2AM, they’re drunk, they’re starving, and it’s the only thing left at 7-11. Or you live in a trailer and think Twinkies are a food group.”
“Shut up! You’re gonna love it!”
We get home and I’m (I think understandably) hovering in the kitchen while TR begins his masterpiece.
“Get out! I’m cooking! While I’m cooking, it’s my kitchen! Get out!”
Damn, I hate it when my words get thrown back at me.
I go outside, but linger by the kitchen window.
“Where’s the oil?”
“Oil?? What do you want oil for?”
“Just tell me where the oil is!”
So TR chops up the hotdogs, fries them in oil, then dumps two or three cans of “spaghetti in tomato sauce” in. Heat & stir. (what was he going to do with those cans of chili? I shudder to think, but fortunately he tired himself out with all this cooking, and neglected to use them.)
“Come and get it! You are gonna love this. It’s fabulous!”
“Gosh, I"m still having my coffee. But thanks!”
And that folks, is why I need to keep reminding myself to just shut up and do all the cooking.
Addendum: I offered the asshole cat some of this Spaghetti avec Chiens-Chauds en ‘Sauce Tomate*,’ but he declined.
*Yes, I know the French don’t actually say this.