Lion King Update

I may have inadvertently bought VIP tickets to The Lion King so whoopsies. Actually, I totally did. That is exactly what I did. Without knowing it.

I do have a thing about getting decent seats whenever we go somewhere. I bought the tickets because I knew they were close to the stage. I didn't realize our seats were so good that we also got a VIP packet with extra special bonus tickets for special parking and for merch.

I like using the word "merch" and I know it doesn't work at all but let's pretend it does. And that it doesn't make me completely ridiculous, too.

To prove how non-artistic I am, just look at what we watched today. Instead of going out, which would have caused us to do things like shower and put on real people clothes, we watched 2 of our Netflix movies. The first was Immortals. Remember when 300 came out and we were all like, wow, that's different? And we meant that as a good thing? Now they've made that same movie visually about 6 times a year since and I would like them to please stop. Immortals ended with one of those "we want to make a sequel!" endings that made me want to re-evaluate all entertainment.

It didn't help that instead of thinking about how the next superman is super buff and has very little clothing covering him for the entire movie, I was thinking about how I wish I knew his hair removal secret and how his boobs were way bigger than his love interest's. Also, how there were a lot of vampires in the movie (the brother from Twilight! the bad guy from The Vampire Diaries!).

Making me want to watch other shows during a movie is a bad thing. Boo, Immortals. Boo.

Then, we followed up that winner with Killer Elite. Clive Owen's pedophile mustache would have ruined that movie if that movie had had any redeemable qualities to begin with. I get that it was set in the 80s, but the guy from Prison Break, which I have never watched, looked so ridiculous it was difficult to pay any serious attention at all. I usually also enjoy a movie based on true events. Just, eh. Eh. Eh. Eh.

I'm pretty sure minute-wise, Killer Elite was shorter than Immortals, but it felt like it was five times longer. And I felt like a lot of that was us watching stock footage of transportation. Oh, an airplane is taking off! We're landing in France because I see a plane and the Eiffel Tower! There's a freeway! We must be driving somewhere now! Oooooo, another airplane! More footage of trucks driving down a road! We're in an urban setting! We're in the desert! Even when we could actually see the characters using said transportation, it was lackluster. Maybe the star of this movie shouldn't have been Jason Statham, who I usually like and forgive for just about anything. All I kept thinking was someone please give The Transporter a girl or a kid or a dog or something to transport because this sh*t is way better when he's doing that.

I will clean my proverbial palate with the thought of going back to The Fox Theater. I remember being really moved when The Lion King was first up at the Tonys all those years ago. I hope I'm just as invested in real life and that I haven't outgrown whatever it was that made me drawn to it in the first place. Well, always something of an adventure either way, right?

Also, my husband informed me that he's never seen the movie. Never. I'm not sure A) how this is possible and B) why I was shocked.

I told him he's going to hear a lot of songs that he's heard before and that he should think every time this happens, "Oh, so that song is from The Lion King movie."

Maybe it will be better that he has no background at all. Maybe he'll be moved!

No?

Okay, probably not.

I'll pin my hopes on him not hating it and take my chances. After today, how bad can it really be? And if it's terrible? From today alone, at least we're working on a pretty close familiarity of sitting through awful and not really caring about it one way or another.

Bonus Post - Hubby's Christmas Present Reaction Photos

Since I recently posted about the hubby's birthday, and all the photos of him opening presents are pretty similar, I figured it would be fun for me to post the Christmas-in-February-at-his-in-laws photos. Because they made me very happy. I didn't post about our February trip because I figured the family wouldn't want to be uploaded all over The Internets no matter how tempted I was to do it. Also, the one decent picture of me from our Xmas trip was the one where I was flicking the husband off but smiling very beautifully, which was both awesome and creepy but somehow R rated.

Ahem. Where was I?

Oh yeah. Let's do this.

My father is a Coca-cola guy. Husband, Pepsi. I know, I know, we're talking practically the Capulets and Montagues here. Somehow, my family has embraced this little nugget of war.

That might be because we are the same family that has given my mother every single item available anywhere ever that has a lighthouse on it, is in the shape of a lighthouse, or resembles a lighthouse in any way because once, she said she liked lighthouses. And then her husband, son, daughter, father, sister... Basically, we all took that and have run with it for, oh, thirty years or so.

Think of all the times you've been out and seen something with a lighthouse on it. Rug. Quilt. Candle. Painting. Sweatshirt. Toothbrush caddy. We have not only seen these things; we bought each and every one of them for my mother. Who now is sort of anti-lighthouse, shockingly.

Once, we even bought her a VERY LARGE carved statue of a lighthouse.

What was it carved out of, you ask?

Trust me, you asked.

Because it was CARVED ENTIRELY OUT OF PECANS.

Mmmm hmmmm. Bam! Nailed it! Gift perfection!

So, [new son-in-law that is hard to buy for] + [likes Pepsi] = [guess what you're getting for every holiday and birthday until we're all dead]. Who said I was bad at math! Heh!

It is also always a bonus gift because we're a Coke family. It's like we've double accepted him. Embracing the enemy that is Pepsi in a Coke household. That's love, People. Love that has started a Happy Wife household Pepsi collection. Current decorative and/or glass bottle total: 12. Tee shirt count: too many to bother actually counting. Boxers in commemorative Pepsi can: 1. That last one was me. We use the can on the desk in the office to hold pens and pencils. Boo-yah! 

The most recent addition was at February Christmas.

(February Christmas soon to be trademarked by Happy Wife.

Sure it will catch on. It's like Christmas

only without the festive holiday spirit!)

My husband is a sweetheart and listens to the

"where we found these old fashioned glass Pepsi bottles"

story with rapt attention and appropriate head nods.

Think I'm kidding? My Dad got up from his comfy chair

across the room to come over and share that story.

"Tell me again about this Rural King you speak of, Sir," said my

husband in his mind because my father has an impressive gun collection.

Mav's all, "Things!"

Then, it got fun.

"Thanks for the Pepsi bottle," said my husband.

"Keep looking in the box!" My father was adamant.

Heh heh.

"Oh, there is another bottle in here!"

My husband executed the perfect level of excitement.

Possible captions:

Check out the pair on that guy!

or

I wish my wife would stop taking my picture!

or

I'm doing the best I can here, Honey, and you're pushing it.

Family fun time is twice as fun when it is with your in-laws!

Right, Honey? Right!

Now you're just making fun of me, he said at this photo.

I'm making MEMORIES, HUSBAND!

And your mother tried to marry you to someone else,

SO DON'T EVEN START WITH ME BECAUSE

WE'RE GONNA TAKE MY FAMILY'S

OWN BRAND OF CRAZY AND RUN WITH IT.

Moving on...

In case the lighthouse story didn't clue you in, let me tell another tale. Last year, my parents got us 2 little flashlights. No batteries, fits in the palm of your hand, little button on an end. We ended up using them all the time. Weird little gift that ended up being great. So, when they asked if there was anything we could think of that we wanted for the holidays, I reminded them of the flashlights.

Which was fun since they did not remember giving them to us. Not. At. all. The conversation went like this:

"Are you sure we got those for you?"

"Yes, Mom."

"I don't think so, Honey."

"No, Mom, it was you. For sure."

"Are you sure?"

*Bangs head on desk*

"It wasn't us."

After a lengthy description and still no memory of it, I let it go and didn't mention it again.

But, remember, say "lighthouse" once in my family...

Fast forward to February Christmas. Did my family get us another flashlight like the ones from the year before? Of course not.

No! Ha! HA HA!

Don't be silly.

They got us 12.

6 red, 6 blue.

All individually wrapped.

All individually wrapped.

I repeated that on purpose because it bears repeating.

Individually.

Wrapped.

The hubby was in heaven.

"Look what I can do when I hold a bunch of them at once!"

Commence very, very bright light.

Also, look behind him at how bored Mav is of the flashlights. The husband kept playing with them until we worried for our sight.

And yes, I got my mother that lighthouse candle holder in the background of that photo last year for Christmas. Heh. I didn't even notice that until just now. Sometimes when we visit, I accuse them of putting out all the stuff we've got them about an hour before we arrive. They deny it.

We had a great aunt or something who, when I was little, gave us this stuffed toy circus monkey that was old, crusty, and horrifying. And huge. I mean, he was human baby size. And, bonus, he looked like his diet consisted of human babies. After he murdered them. My mother put him out as our dining room table centerpiece about five minutes before my aunt's every visit and put him away out of eyesight before she even got out of the driveway on her way home. It wasn't like she put him on a low shelf or secondary room end table. Dining room table centerpiece. Man, that thing was some kind of awful. If there was ever an object that was evil, it was that monkey.

*Shudders* 

Anyway, a young kid sees that and it doesn't take much to put 2 and 2 together as an adult that when I walk around a house where all my gifts are prettily displayed and nothing else is out, well...

I am actually cool with it, if it happens or not. Either way, my crap is out because of love.

Speaking of love, other than my hubby, one of my favorite guys is my little bro. Who got my hubby a daily military fact calendar. Which, in this photo, looks like it is receiving a soulful, possibly sexy serenade from the hubby.

*Belting*

When a man loves a woman-

Can't keep his mind on nothing else-

Except for military history and

historical facts no one else remembers and

possibly his latest game of pew pew pew

Battlefield Soldiers Wearing Halos In A Portal

or whatever it's called. 

Save the princess!

I mean, it's all so fascinating-

*Thud*

Sorry, my narcolepsy is acting up again.

I also asked for a group photo but never managed to get a decent one. This is my husband's face in the one photo I managed to take with more than one person in it. Do you think he really nailed my "Smile!" cue?

This photo proves it.

It being that nothing's more painful than love. Yes?

Well, except maybe exhaustion.

Although, Hulk Husband did come out for a second.

Take that, flimsy plastic!

Mav is obviously some kind of sidekick to Hulk Husband.

If a sidekick can simply be 100% annoying and unhelpful

with zero super powers.

Actually, Mav attempted to help a lot.

Here she is helping my mom.

"I smell your leg. It smells leggy. You're welcome."

Here she is helping my mom. Again.

Yum, tissue paper. Nom, nom, nom.

She was helping her so much that at one point, the hubby intervened.

In Mav's defense, it is difficult to keep a Weim in line

when anything is happening anywhere ever.

That box did at one time have Boy Scout popcorn in it,

so you can't blame her. Can't blame genius.

Or me, for, you know, helping the children.

Only if they sell food, though.

I only help through snacks.

It takes a village.

Come on, I'm no hero, though!

*Takes a bow*

Most of the photos of me from February Christmas are just like this.

Pretties.

Wait, do I have a bald spot?

My part sure seems to go way down the back of my head.

Ho ho ho, Merry February Christmas, World!

In April!

Please excuse me while I go call 800 numbers

that belong to companies that help you regrow your hair.

Can You Feel The Love Tonight?

You know what every husband enjoys? Elton John songs, an emotional storyline acted out in English by safari animals, and extravagant displays of puppetry.

Okay, okay. Maybe not.

Still, the hubby is taking me to see the Lion King. The musical, not the animated movie.

*Jazz Hands*

Wooooooooooo!

And I only have to wait 4 months to go.

Woooooooooo.

Woooo.

Sigh.

Wo.

On an unrelated note, I have informed the husband, using air quotes, that I no longer recognize his "deadlines" and that I'm gonna put the "dead" in his "deadlines" if he doesn't stop working so much. He made the mistake of admitting that the team members with children aren't putting in the kind of overtime hours that he has been putting in these past weeks. Months. Year.

I have therefore declared myself a "special needs" wife and I am thisclose to showing up at Boeing in a bathrobe and with my hair in curlers. Both things I will need to buy for this scenario. Because my hubby has family that needs him, too. I'm out of episodes of Damages and I'm forcing myself to watch The Voice. Sh*t is about to hit the fan. I'm a woman at the end of my rope!

Also, I am not above using permanent marker to draw inappropriate pictures on his face while he sleeps and then writing "Suck this, Deadline!" or something equally clever on his forehead.

One can only have so many days that go like this:

Pandora the cat: "Meow. Mew."

Me: "Mew, mew yourself, Pandora."

Pandora: "Mewp."

Me: "Mewp, mewp."

"Meeeeeeeeeew," says Pandora.

"MEEEEEEEEEEW", I say.

And so on.

The Schwan's Man

My goal should be to be as excited to see my husband as I am to see the Schwan's man.

Always Trying To Improve,
Happy Wife

An Easter Treat - Doves!

Cadbury Cream Egg season cannot be spoiled in my house, not even with the latest m-i-l saga (adding new and surprising levels of crazy since 2005!). I am not going to go there right now, so I'll talk about the rest of our Easter weekend. We had a great couple days. I married a wonderful guy and I like him even more now then when I married him. Which is saying something, since I've always been quite fond of him.

The hubby was home all weekend, which was lovely. We managed to be less productive than we had wanted but still crossed some things off of the to-do list. I super cleaned 3 rooms, kept the washing machine and dryer busy, and ran around town. Tried to do all the things I'd been putting off, like picking up the hubby's dry cleaning, getting Mav's medicine refilled at the vet's office, and returning a couple pairs of shoes to DSW (online clearance: sometimes I hit it right and sometimes, well, wowza, no).

What didn't get gone wasn't major. We ordered Chinese food and watched television. Sometimes you need to have down time, and I think the hubby needed it more than most as of late. He's had such long hours and worked a lot of weekends. If he needs to look up soccer online for an entire morning, then that's what he needs to do. It's not like I don't sometimes get caught up by my favorite blog or Big Cat Rescue videos like this Easter one or Dear Prudence columns. Dear Prudence is always one way to make my life look and feel SO GREAT!

The hubby did mow the lawn Sunday, which makes for TWICE IN A ROW. Call the media! The number of times he's done yard work since we've been married may actually be creeping up into the higher single digits. You might need 2 hands soon to count! Hee hee!

Seriously, though, it was much appreciated and looks great. Perhaps he should not do such a good job. For a such a smart man, you would think he would have already come to that conclusion.

We also had free entertainment in the form of the family of doves living above one of our windowsills.

If I didn't take the dog out a hundred times a day, or have a line of kitties at that front window 24/7, I wouldn't get to see them every five seconds. We have had this dove nest for many years now, and it's churned out a lot of babies. One at a time.

At this point, they've nested there so often that when I go outside, I immediately look for them and then, ahem, talk to them. Loudly. Like a crazy person. I am sure the neighborhood is not aware that I am talking to birds. That's not weird or creepy at all, right?

I imagine anyone who can hear me, which is probably a larger number than I am willing to admit, thinks I am talking to my own house or something. Hi, House!

The doves do seem to have babies that are, um, special. That is why I haven't named them and just call them "Babies" and "Mama" and so on. We had one baby that came out of the nest around the right time and then walked all the way to the backyard and decided to live in the hedges behind the garage. Permanently. Under the dryer vent and where there is no food. It would then come up the stairs onto our deck and sit next to our back door on the mat. I mean, nestled against the back door. Our back door has lots of glass so it was basically in our kitchen. I remember cooking and running around in there and it was never phased. We couldn't use our back door and I had to walk the long way around the house so that I could feed it bird seed. That was last summer.

It was not the rocket scientists of birds. Since I've never found a dead dove, I like to pretend some smart genes kicked in at some point and it's living large somewhere fancy like the botanical gardens or the Cards baseball stadium.

Another baby just sort of hung out in our driveway for days after he left the nest. I thought it must have left too soon and that he couldn't fly. I mean, why else would it just just stay on the driveway for days and days? For what felt like forever. The hubby had to pull the car into the garage with airplane-landing-level help. We concocted a plan - okay, so I made a plan and then told him he was helping me. I thought I'd just put it back in its nest.

When we had painters come, there was a baby in the nest and we just set the nest on the ground, baby and all, painted the house, and then stuck the nest and it back up there at the end of each work day. Every person and dove was super fine with that. No issues at all. Parents still were as attentive as usual and the baby never tried to escape into the yard. So I thought maybe driveway dove had fallen and needed a little help back in the nest for a touch longer, and since our history showed that a little help from us wasn't earth-shattering...

Well, driveway dove just sat there as I walked up to it. I had the hubby for backup in case it wanted to run into the street or something. The hubby stood at the end of the driveway with his arms out as I just sort of followed it around the driveway. Little fella was not in a rush. It was like he and I were taking a walk where the bird just walked a foot in front of me at all times. Finally I was close enough to reach out and get him. He didn't seem scared of me at all. Then, like it was nothing, right before I could pick him up, the little sh*t flew away. My worry stemmed from the idea that the poor little thing couldn't fly. Nope. Just another Mensa member from this dove family.

The past couple weeks, I suspected there were two babies, which was sort of awesome but also sort of terrifying. If all the goods went into raising one baby all this time, and those sole babies turned out, well, you know... Now, split all those resources and parent-dove-time into two babies and uh-oh. Hopes were not high. I was pretty sure these guys would need little wing-elbow pads and possibly little bird helmets. I thought doubling up on the babies probably meant super, um, special baby doves? Part of me figured that after all these years and after all these one at a time babies, of course there was just one there. I'm just imaging there are 2!

Over the weekend, low and behold...

2 baby doves.

"Hi Babies! Those are good babies! Hi Babies!"

Oh Lord. Happy Easter. Sunday, the dove parents decided to take a break. You have to realize that there is always one parent at the actual nest and the other is usually in our yard or in a nearby tree. They do not stray far until it's time for the babies to leave the nest. All day Easter these two little/big babies just hung out above the window. I'm pretty sure they were like, "Hey, where did our parents go and when are they bringing us more food?"

Maybe that's just me. I like food. That would be my reaction if I were in their shoes. In their feathers. Special needs helmets. Whatever.

Finally, Sunday night, the parents came back. Acted like they'd never even left them. I guess they were hoping the little guys would take the hint. Nope. So each parent took turns on the nest again. Which was definitely not stretching to fit.

Mom or Pops is sitting on one baby (you can see the tail coming out on the left side of the photo) while the other baby sits in front of the parent facing in the same direction. Roomy. Most of the time, you can barely see the head of one of the parents sticking out of the nest. The babies had gotten so big that adding in an adult dove made it like the nest was just a podium. Now, nobody fits.

I am way too invested in them and worry about them although I know I have nothing to do with anything. Do I need therapy? Probably.

I kept bringing the hubby out to look at them all weekend. I'm all, "Come see the babies!" and he's all, "Um, okay." I know he did it because he loves me and I was excited about it, not because he was really that interested. Such a good husband.

I'm sure soon they'll be gone and the doves will be back to sitting on an egg. Until then, free cat tv through the window and lots of crazy lady talking to them from the front yard.

Hubby's Birthday

Wednesday was the hubby's birthday. He's been working a lot, and of course, his next big deadline was Thursday. The day after his big day. So, nothing pressing. Ha ha ha.

He did manage to come home at a reasonable hour, which was impressive considering. His coworkers told him to go home and enjoy his day. Less impressive were all the calls he received that night from work about work. Poor guy.

We skipped the hockey game this past week, which was fine. I just wanted the hubby to have a break and rest, which he did Wednesday night. We watched Game of Thrones and I slow cooked a new recipe. Salisbury steaks in a tasty mushroom sauce over rice. Not too shabby.

On his drive home, he said, "Maybe we could go to Cold Stone later!"

To which I mumbled. Because Mav and I had bought him his favorite DQ cake that morning.

Then, he caught on and said, "Or... Do I have a Dairy Queen cake?"

...

"Congratulations on blowing your surprise, Honey."

 Still, I did manage to keep some secrets.

Presents!

And a Mary Lou photobomb!

Also, yes, I am aware that this photo paints a picture of a 90-year-old woman's house. Hello, china in china cabinet. Hello, corner shelf full of very old mixing bowls and vases. This shot makes me feel like I took a picture in 1970. Which is weird. Since I walk through that room with zero shame at least twice a day. I would even go so far as to say I have a modern swagger as I hang out in there proudly.

It helps to have a very handsome husband when one's mind wanders as mine just did. It doesn't matter if I enjoy looking like I have decorated via a Goodwill store. Handsome husband opening presents!

What's cooking, Good Lookin'?

Flyin' high, Pumpkin Pie!

I'll stop now. With that anyway.

Granted, all the soccer themed gifts were dog toys, but still.

Arty helped him open his new sandals.

Which he promptly left on the dining room floor until I picked them up today. A cat was using the sole for scratches. I decided it was time. Let the room get back to 1970.

I then asked the hubby if I could throw away his old, broken-strap sandals. To which he said, "But it would be nice to have a spare."

SAYS THE MAN WHO NEVER HAS BOUGHT SHOES AND WHO HAS OWNED ONE PAIR OF SHOES FOR ESSENTIALLY HIS ENTIRE LIFE.

SAYS THE MAN WHO HAS NO SHOES.

THE MAN I HAVE TRIED TO GET TO ADD TO HIS SHOE COLLECTION (OF ALMOST ZERO SHOES) FOR OVER SEVEN YEARS-

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

*Clearing throat*

I'm cool.

So cool that I bought him this.

For the record, he's Oooooooing here, impressed by my awesomeness.

Not Whaaaaaaaing here, confused by the items before him.

Archer! Both seasons on Blu-ray and the Sterling Archer book as well. Not the most original gifts because I knew he would really like them, but the thought counts. And, you know, the awesomeness.

I should also get some sort of points for not making him things like mixed tapes anymore, right?

I also may or may not have gotten us 2 large lap tv trays. For eating in front of the tv with less... excitement.  Back off, Pandora! My Chicken! MY CHICKEN!

Unfortunately, when the trays are empty,

she finds them almost as irresistible as our meals. 

The joy of having cats means

for every moment of amusement,

you get to clean everything twice.

I didn't wrap those trays. They didn't fit in my pretty, easily reusable birthday wrapped boxes.

Maybe referencing 1970 is actually giving myself a break, eh? Supper trays. Sigh. At least we haven't started playing bingo or going out for supper at 2 pm. Wait, that last one is totally something we do. Crap.

Well, glad the old man had a birthday, then. We're getting up there. Hey, remember when they didn't have cell phones? Hey! Good times. Here's a quarter kid, buy yourself something nice.

My Husband Is Excellent In A Crisis

Thought I'd share a little story with you guys. For the record, as stressful/upset/horrified as we were, we also did find it ridiculous and funny pretty much immediately. Only us.

Friday afternoon, the hubby came home at 3. THREE! HOORAY!

It's less impressive when you think that he got into work at 4 am, but I'll take it over 8 or 9 pm any day.

We had all the shades drawn, watching Raising Hope downstairs on the couch with Mav. It was exactly 4:58 pm. So essentially, it was 5 pm on a Friday. Of course.

I heard the same noise the hubby heard coming from behind us. I thought a kitty was having a sneeze or a small hissy fit with another cat, so I didn't even turn around. I just yelled, "Quit it!"

The hubby, however, turned and said, "Something's wrong." He paused the DVRed show. Obviously, the hubby was serious.

I looked at him, Mr. Works-All-The-Time as of late. I figured maybe he'd forgotten what it is like to be home because our cats are always making noises or being silly or even getting annoyed by one another. Fights are rare but once in a while 2 that don't get alone will pass by one another and give a little swat, sometimes playful, sometimes annoyed. A hiss or two is not unheard of but also, not the norm. No big deal. And I think I know when a situation is bad enough that I have to get up. If the hubby hadn't been home, I would not have gotten up. I probably wouldn't have even turned around.

Thankfully, I blindly followed his sixth sense, maybe as a way to be able to tell him he was crazy. To check on things and then be able to say to him, "See? Told you, it was nothing."

We have all these rescued kitties and they are, more than not, very happy. They're spoiled and adored. They live inside our house, far from the, ahem, dangers of the outside world, surrounded by kitty beds and kitty furniture and 2 people that love them and a dog that tolerates them.

I popped up off the couch to check on them.

Isley, our grey and white cat, had bounded down from the organ. He had been in the window (remember where the curtains are closed). Sweet Pea, who had been sleeping on a bed on top of the organ, was sitting up, disturbed by Isley running past her but not in any major way. Isley was acting strange. I'll give the hubby that. Shaking his head, then running off.

Jeepers, Honey. Oh, wait. This is not news. Isley is strange. He is our weirdest cat. He's always anxious and he's on Prozac. That is not a joke. He's one of our 2 cats that have the behaviorist. A behaviorist that is more expensive than me going to a real shrink. Which, ironically, Isley is thisclose to making me need on a regular basis just in general.

Isley, for the record, for all his faults, makes up for his shortcomings by being pretty adorable. He started like this in our home. Born under our front porch in a litter of feral kittens.

Hard to ignore, right?

Little meercat (with his sister Sweet Pea).

Oh, so feral. Ahem.

As time passed, he didn't lose much of the cute.

So, he's being himself, Professional Weirdo. Interrupting Raising Hope. Shocking.

I went over to Sweet Pea since Isley had disappeared up the stairs before I could even get a good look at him. I petted Sweet Pea's head. She was fine. Eyes still sort of droopy. Happy for a little attention, unmoved by much else. She'd obviously been sleeping.

So, to see if maybe there was a cat in the window perch behind the curtain, I took a peek through the opening. Leaned over Sweet Pea and took a look. Empty cat window perch. Nothing on the glass of the window. Well, dirt, but don't judge me. I don't see a damn thing out of the ordinary.

Then, who knows why, I looked at the back of the curtain as I pulled my head back. We have these dark brown curtains that my mom got us, thank God. The ones lined in white. They're insulated or something. So the back of the curtain is this blank sheet of white.

Oh, except for, you know, this curtain at this time. Oh, this curtain at this time?

Uh-oh.

My insides went, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Because I'm allergic to everything. And, you know, ouch.

Instead of screaming, I gave off a little noise, softly placed the curtain back, and said as calmly as I could to the hubby, "You have to kill that. You have to kill that now. I'll check on Isley. I think it's a bee."

I didn't look back as I ran up the stairs.

I chased Isley all over the house. He barely paused every couple seconds to act like he had peanut butter in his mouth or to attempt to throw up. Pretty.

I caught him many times, running my hands over him at first. I thought maybe he'd batted at it, got stung in a paw or on one of his front little legs. It was obvious his body was fine. I grabbed his mouth. Isley lets me give him medicine every day. He opens his little mouth super wide with no hesitation and no desire to shut it. Well, until of course this moment. He would not let me open his mouth. He used his claws and removed my hands with more force than seemed possible every time I tried to gingerly let him let me see in there.

I wrapped Isley in a towel so the hubby could hold him and his nails of fury. Isley did not like the towel. It was like he was more angry about the towel vs my trying to get into his mouth. At one point, I was able to crane his mouth open for a split second. Now, he has a little pink mouth with lots of grey spots in it anyways just from his coloring. And I haven't really ever "studied" his mouth. I couldn't ID him on a crime show by his mouth alone.

Still, I thought I saw something suspicious sticking out of the top of his tongue. Hard to judge since it was barely even a glimpse.

It was about 5 after 5 then.

The hubby told me to call our vet. NOW. Who closed at 5.

So I called, and our vet answered the phone himself. Because he's a good vet, and maybe he saw it was my number. Who knows. I quickly told him what happened, and he asked how quickly I could be at the office. I said 10 minutes. He said to bring him in immediately.

10 minutes never went so fast. The hubby and I hit our accelerate buttons. He was perfect as we yelled at each other to do the needed tasks. We flew around the house. He grabbed a carrier. I closed certain doors. He put the angel food cake away, lest we come home to a dog who has eaten an entire Sam's Club angel food cake, plastic packaging and all. The hubby hid the cage behind his back as I grabbed Isley to toss him inside.

We both threw on clothing that was appropriate to wear outdoors (sort of). I wore cut off sweatpants that were the hubby's in college, a tank top with a sweatshirt thrown on top, and neon green flipflops. Not my typical "Hi there, Outside World!" look. I haven't showered or brushed my teeth because I have been meaning to do yard work and showering pre-yardwork is ridiculous. Ask anyone with half a brain. But then I kept getting sidetracked or tired or just didn't wanna. Obviously. I hadn't brushed my hair in days. My face was a mess. At least I was wearing a bra. So, well, small miracles.

The hubby managed to sneak on jeans at some point. Not that it mattered. He looked presentable because he's a guy and he'd gone to work earlier. He may have been wearing his soccer shirt, but at least he was presentable. His pj shorts wouldn't have mattered.

We hit every light on the way to the vet. We were worried about Isley, telling him to stay awake during the drive. Imagining him having a reaction, or even not. Even without a reaction, his tongue could be swelling, limiting his ability to eat and drink at best, cutting off his air supply at worst. I hated the idea of him in pain. I was trying not get a heart condition myself.

At the same time, we were like, this doesn't happen to other people. We were all too well aware of this. Doesn't happen. To other cats. Other cat owners.

This can't even be categorized as first world problems. These are crazy people problems. Seriously, have you ever known anyone who had to do this?

The hubby just responded by saying, "Special needs cats, Honey" and I said, "Some people barely take their pets into the vet once a year. Ours manage to not only get stung by a bee, but stung by a bee on his tongue."

The hubby drove me up to the door, where I flew in with Isley, and our vet was waiting in the front. I was already flying down his little hall and he just yelled, "Second room!"

We looked at each other when we got into the room together and immediately, instead of saying any words, had a little laugh. Because, you know, only us.

We got Isley out of his carrier. He was riled up, to say the least. In his defense, he had just had an exciting fourth of an hour. And it obviously wasn't getting any better. He hates the vet. This was just piling on for him.

I wish animals knew that you were trying to help them, or at least could be soothed by some sort of knowledge, some sort of communication. I wanted to at least tell him it would be over soon. Go to your happy place, Buddy. We're here to help you, Little Man,

I wanted to be all, "Think about the laser pointer!" or "You're in a box!" He loves getting into things. Last time I got a box in the mail, I hadn't even had time to look at its contents on the counter before turning to find Isley in the box.

Why do we buy you toys and beds again?

What do you mean I can't see you? Of course I can see you, Genius.

Yeah, yeah. Nirvana. I get it.

Can I recycle that now, please?

Isley's response, "BOX!" 

*Kitty jazz paws*

Always the wonderful vet, our doctor and his trusty tech Chris attempted to stick Isley on the scale. I knew this would help them decide how much medicine to give him if he needed medicine. Oh, he was such a little trooper. If by little trooper, you mean little sh*t who acted like being held and being weighed was simply a cover for "these people are trying to kill me."

He hissed and refused to be set down on the scale, trying to escape.

Finally, they got a close-enough weight, then the vet opened Isley's mouth with a little help from Chris. She held Isley as the vet turned to get some tweezers and some local pain killer.

Our vet said, "I want to do this without anesthesia, but we'll use it if we have to." Then, he had me AND the hubby hold down Isley's 8 pound body as Chris held open Isley's mouth. Our vet just went right in and tweezed the stinger right out. It had been on the front half of the top of his tongue. Removing it seemed so easy to our vet, like he was snapping his fingers. It took seconds. Maybe not even. The vet put the stinger on a white napkin so we could see it.

Isley got some injections (a steroid and a drug similar to Benadryl) and the vet gave us some extra steroids in case Isley had any swelling or problems over the weekend.

The vet said, "I've seen dumb dogs get stung in the mouth by a bee, but I have rarely seen a cat get stung, and I've never seen a sting on their actual tongue. Around the mouth, yes. Tongue, no."

For the record, he is not a young vet. He probably could have retired years ago. He's been around the proverbial block more than a time or two. The Happy Wife house, always making his job new and exciting. We're a family of firsts for him.

Isley has been doing fine since. He actually came home and ate some food almost immediately. Before I had time to even put my purse away. Sigh.

So, yeah. Our cat decided to attack a bee with his mouth because how else would a cat do that and got stung on his tongue, which resulted in our wonderful vet staying late and an emergency visit to him. Only us. Only our cat. Lord.

Thank God for my husband and his ability to react in a crisis. Quick, thoughtful actions. I may have gotten to the same place without him but how long would it have taken? Especially if I had never even gotten up?

And no matter how elevated my own heartbeat was, the hubby kept cool. He kept his worry at a simmer and managed to keep mine under wraps as well. Allowing us to move. To act. To make sure one of our little 4-legged freakshows morons monsters kids was fine. So that he can continue driving us bananas for years to come.

This photo demonstrates why we should have just assumed

he'd been stung on his tongue.