Laundry and Fat Cat

Blog fodder. This is the name I have chosen to assign to the little idiosyncrasies of life that give me my writing material. It may not be original- but I can't recall having seen it before. It's a better name than guano.

With my kids at school this morning, and a blissful quiet having fallen over the house, I can think a little more clearly- as clearly as a medicated crazy woman with a head cold can be expected to think.

This moment I am thinking of my absolute hatred of doing laundry... I hate it with the white hot intensity of 1000 suns. It never ends, and I think that is what I hate most about it. Even once the hampers are clear of the week's clothing, there are towels and sheets to be gathered and washed.

I also despise sorting socks. I fucking HATE it. I would rather scrub toilets, and wash unsoaked dishes than sort stupid socks. His socks, my son's socks, my daughters and mine. Thats a shit-load of feet to wash for. Invariably, there is always the proof of God's existence on laundry day- that magical power that seems to snatch one or more of the socks from the dryer mid-tumble.

This morning I even got the nice surprise of opening the dryer full of whites to find my fat-shit black cat laying his hairy shedding ass on my bleached white clothes. Did he jump out with that scared look, knowing he did a wrong? Of course not- he looked at me as if to say, "Go away- you're bothering me, bitch.", He only moved after I reached into the dryer and pulled his fat ass out, and he did his very best to give me a feline guilt trip, and shot me a "Die, bitch, die" look.

More than likely, he has moved to his second favorite spot- the branches of my Christmas tree. I don't know how he gets his porcine kiester up there, but when he does, I feel compelled to get the squirt bottle and soak him. Dangerous business that. When he gets out of said tree, on the other end of my itchy trigger finger, he scampers (in so much that a fat-shit cat can scamper), and the whole tree threatens to shake itself bare of all decoration.

He also eats the tinsel. All the cats take part in the snacking'o'silver. It makes for great fun cleaning the cat box- as I get to gag my guts up pulling out turds strung together by chewed strings of silver sparkle. It almost seems it wouldn't be the holidays without this little bonus... That and the inevitable puddles of cat puke on the floor from him eating the needles of the tree. What would compel an animal to eat something that makes him sick, then go back for seconds... and thirds...?

I must away- I hear the soft tinkle of the ornaments shaking on the tree- I am sure fat boy is starting his antics.