I think it's really good that others can't see what we do when we're alone.
THAT could get really embarressing.
In the past hour I've done the following:
1. Giggled like mad while quoting from an essay on "The Death of the Lady (Novelist).
2. Burst in to seven completely different renditions of three different Christmas carols. My favorite one so far is the Bette Midler version of "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" complete with jazz hands.
3. Drank three cans of Pepsi. In a row.
4. Ate three Lindor White Chocolate Truffle Balls. In a row.
5. Ate a large batch of Krusteaz Lime Bars (darn you, Cindy!). I would stop typing now - but I'm now stuck to the keys with green goo. :)
6. Clapped like a seal when I saw Luke and Christopher have a "man fight" in the middle of Stars Hollow on the CW's "Gilmore Girls."
7. Lit a clove scented candle. Played in the flame. Had to resist launching into a Beavis tirade of "Fire! FIRE!."
8. Launched, instead, into a jazzy rendition of Michael Buble's "Let is Snow."
9. Pulled my hair into a pony tail. Pulled it out. Put it in a half pony tail. Took it out. Wound it up in a bun. Pulled it out.
10. Successfully wasted a full hour that should've been spent on my essay about "The House of Mirth." I'm so proud.
About an hour ago - before all this animated wasting of time - I had to give Phoebe her meds. Alone. She's getting wise to the scheme. I pull out the turquoise towel and she attempts to dart. Luckily for me she's only running on like a 1/2 cylinder so I catch her and plop her into my lap. I prepare her syringe of antibiotics and pry open her tiny mouth with my finger (thanks to Dan - I can still type with all ten fingers) - just as I'm about to squirt a small amount onto her pink tongue - she bitch slaps me with a paw that flies from under the towel and makes immediate contact with my left cheek.
I panic and - empty half the banana-smelling goo onto my arm.
I swear the little gasping feline smirks at me.
"Oh no you don't!" I quickly refill up to the 1ML line.
This time I manage to get most of it in - some on my arm and a small smudge on my glasses - but MOST goes into Phoebe.
Afterwards, she's so mad - she won't move. She lays in my arms like a highly pissed off catepillar, waiting to become an even more pissed off butterfly. Finally, after three minutes of heavy breathing (still not deep) she bucks and frees herself from my lap.
Stopping a few inches from my knees - she looks at me and shakes like Hooch from Turner and Hooch. Spit strings, laden with that foul, sweet-smelling, liquid launches from her jaws and on to my right cheek.
Harry calls from Ripley, WV.
"I'm bored," he whines.
"Really?" I say while whiping at my sticky cheek with a rag, "I just got beat up by a sickly cat who covered me in her drool."
"Still, it's better than being bored," he reasoned.
Next time, post medicine injection, I'm going to toss Phoebe into his closet and let her shake her drool onto his Robert Talbot shirts.
Now that would be a cure for boredom!
BTW- Pheobe's bloodwork came back - she's not suffering from pneumonia. And he's not certain that it's cancer either. Hello, square one, how I've missed thee...