Spottswood

I mentioned recently that Spottswood had slipped out the house at some point last week. We suspect that he ran out when Ian was moving his plants indoors due to the freezing weather.

Ian spotted Spottswood in the barn the next day, but Spottswood hid before Ian catch him. Spottswood appears to have left the barn and...and that's it.

He's missing and we have no idea where he is. Spottswood is such a skittish cat that he transformed into something almost feral when he escaped outside.

We plan to check the neighborhood animal shelter tomorrow, but it's looking pretty grim. I doubt we will ever see him again.

I can't believe I'm typing this, and I've been holding out hope for days, but it looks like this is Spottswood's memorial post.

He was a fabulous, funny, wide-eyed little cat who clung to Ian and played happily with the dog. He slept above Ian's head every night and was constantly at our feet.

We loved him and we wish he was still with us.

So long, little buddy.

Lots and Lots of Updates

Howdy. I took a little break from the blog. This was an "I'm tired and have way too many things to think about right now" type thing. No biggie.

But someone did ask what happened to Winiferd so here's a slew of updates:

1. Spottswood's a late bloomer. 

The cat we considered physically perfect came down with a raging case of zits a few weeks ago.

Ian thought it was flea dirt but I'm a champ at detecting fleas and flea dirt (God almighty, Winnie, stop traumatizing your poor mother), and I knew it couldn't be fleas.

After 1.5 seconds of Googling, I realized it was feline acne. Our little boy has become a man.

And that's the story of why "Spottswood's acne medication" now sits on our grocery list.

Harvey has been calling Spottswood "Pizza Face." But Harvey has no room to talk because...

2. Harvey is gross.

And Harvey keeps urinating and defecating on things. And I don't know. I guess it takes too much energy to walk 15 feet to the litter box room. And life is tough.  And walking makes my feet hurt.

Update: Yesterday, Harvey had an accident-free day. He was rewarded with a smiley face sticker. We also crowned him king of the potty.

3. Winnie has declared herself my faithful watchdog. 

It's wildly annoying. Ian started a new job ages ago that keeps him out of the house later in the evenings.

So Winnie protects my life and limb by barking loudly at the wind blowing and cars driving and butterflies elegantly gliding by in perfect harmony with the universe.

Because, damn it, these things might disturb my human, and I will bark so hard the world will fear all eight pounds of my poofy ass.

Face of a killer

In return, Winnie gets a lot of time-outs when Ian's away from home. It does help to quell the barking. Yay for gentle, life-affirming doggy discipline or whatever you want to call that hippie crap.

4. I'm one week shy of the third trimester. 

Yesterday was the first day that strangers realized I was pregnant. The mail-lady, who sees me everyday, was shocked.

Mail-lady: "Oh my goodness! You're pregnant!"

Laura: "Yeah!"

Mail-lady : "How many months are you?"

Laura: "A little over 6."

Mail-lady- "Six months!?"

According to my doctor, I've gained 14 pounds so far.

The baby kicks and squirms with vigor. So vigorously that Ian once got nauseous and had to stop feeling the miracle of life since it made him feel like barfing.

I felt the first fetal movements at 18 weeks, at 5 in the morning, the sensation of a butterfly flapping around in my left side.

Now, at 27 weeks, the child does some sort of intense gymnastics routine in the early mornings, as I can feel bizarre ripples against my stomach again and again and again and you get the picture. 

I'm sorry but I have no pictures of me lately because I never think to take any. We're working on it.

The Big Reveal

Folks, it's what you've all been waiting for. Or at least what four of you have been waiting for. And you four already know.

So here's the news no one's been waiting for and now feel only mildly interested in learning.

It's a...

No. Wait. That's wrong.

It's a...

Shoot. Hold on.

Wait. Wait.

It's a girl!

Spottswood the Menace

Life is full of irony, something Alanis Morissette went on at length about back in the 1990s.

Which is why one week you're branding your surly fat cat and needy dog the grossest, most annoying animals in the universe, or at least the house, and the next week the cat you deemed perfect is rampaging around the house acting like the devil with his pants on fire.

Spottswood, perfect, dainty, adorable Spottswood, erupted into hell on legs last week.

Spottswood has chewed three keys off Ian's computer keyboard, insists on chewing up computer cords, crams candy wrappers and plastics into his cheeks, hops onto shelves and knocks all the contents off, and is continually running between Ian's legs making them both skid around erratically.

"I am so gnawing on that ethernet cable."

Hell hath no furry like a cat who chews up your computer hardware, so Ian has taken to calling Spottswood, "asshole" and "bastard."

By contrast, Winnie has spent the last few days being cuddly and sugary sweet.

Ian and I usually walk the dog together, but the few times Ian has declined to walk, staying home to fix his mangled computer hardware full of fang bites, Winnie has leapt into Ian's lap, burrowing into his legs. She'll give me a mournful look, hiding in Forever Daddy's lap, upset at the prospect of separation.

And, well, you try to despise a dog with that kind of loyalty. Ian can't. He emits all kinds of "Awws" when that happens.

And then you factor in Winnie's new haircut, which makes her look like a deformed lamb mixed with a miniature Luck Dragon, and then the time a sleeping Winnie jerked awake, shaking and wild-eyed, tail tucked between her legs, scaring the ever-loving crap out of both Ian and me, and you suddenly have a wildly sympathetic Forever Daddy.

Laura: "She must have had a nightmare. I've never seen a dog react so emotionally to a dream."

Ian: "I was waiting for an earthquake to happen. Poor thing."

So we currently have an asshole of a cat and an achingly sweet dog. We're patiently waiting for Spottswood to level out and for everything to return to normal.

In the meantime:

Laura: "Did you know 'dog' spelled backwards is 'god'?"

Ian: "Yeah."

Laura: "Did you know 'cat' spelled backwards is 'tac'?"

Ian: <Giggles>

Winiferd in the Burbs: SVU (Clank, Clank)

The crime-
Feces. Doo Doo. Defecation.

Scene of the crime-
The kitchen rug (yikes), the kitchen floor surrounding the kitchen rug (eww), and the bottom kitchen cabinet (WHY, GOD, WHY).

The time of the committed crime-
Between 3:00 am and 5:00 am, Friday morning.

The suspects- 
1. Skinny cat, black and white, fifteen pounds. Sleek, elegant, shiny. Has his own beauty regimen. Poses daintily for the camera. Has a crush on his school friend, Nicholas. Is generally perfect in every way.

2. Fat cat, black and white, twenty-three pounds. Dandruff, intense shedding, pathological eater, is best friends with a one Mr. Hanky.

Has a history of doo doo issues. Sleeps often. Loves strangers. Ignores family.

The story- 
I take Winnie to the potty at around 5:00 am on Friday morning. I notice lumps of...stuff. It's too dark to see, but the dog is intrigued. It smells oddly like dead things. Nah, I'm still dreaming.

I drag the dog outside to do her business, and we go back to bed. At 7:00 am, Ian and I wake up. I sniff the kitchen air. I cringe. I spot the crime.

The verdict-

Screw criminal justice and Miranda Rights and fair trials.

Harvard Nathaniel, the jury finds you guilty of First Degree Bull Shit, and the judge sentences you to a year of public shaming.

____________________________________________________

The Crime- 
Wee wee. Wet spot.

Scene of the crime- 
The living room rug I bought with my Christmas money, a rug that is shaggy and red and awesome.

Time of the committed crime- 
Between 8:00 am and 10:00 am, Saturday morning.

The suspects-
1. The fat cat from yesterday who now has a history of being too lazy to walk ten feet to the liter box. The fat cat who has temporarily lost all regard for rules and regulations and not shitting on the floor. 

2. Small dog, white, fluffy, eight pounds. Has to use the bathroom every four hours. Enjoys long walks and chicken-watching. Has attachment issues. Is hyper needy. Has a history of peeing on towels and rugs when immediate need to urinate goes unmet.

The story-

10:00 am on Saturday morning:

Ian: "It smells awful in here."

Laura: "I don't smell anything."

11:30 am on Saturday morning:

Laura: "What's wet over here? What is this?"

Ian: "I guess that's the source of the awful smell."

Laura: "I still can't smell it."

A few hours later: 

Laura: "IT SMELLS LIKE A DYING TURD IN HERE. I THINK A ROTTEN CARCUS IS MASHED INTO THE RUG."

The verdict-

This time we spend a few hours deliberating but ultimately declare the dog guilty of First Degree Asinine Behavior.

We sentence the dog to a year of being watched extra closely and constant references to the time she shamed the family.

The Doggy Said She Loves Me!

Here's the latest slew of catch-phrases here at the Winiferd house:

1. For the past several months I've been slipping the sentence, "The doggy said she loves me!" into casual conversations.

For instance:

Laura: "Have you heard about Romney in Britain today? Apparently, he's made multiple gaffes."

Ian: "I heard about it on NPR."

Laura: "I think the Brits are quietly waiting for Romney to tie one of the Queen's corgis atop his mini-van and drive it into the River Thames."

Ian: "Ha."

Laura: "He's headed to Israel next. That should be a nice, easy atmosphere to prove his diplomatic skills. The doggy said she loves me! So, yeah, I can't wait to hear what he'll say next."

Ian: "Did you... did you just say, 'The doggy said she loves me'?"

Laura: "I'm not sure. But she does love me, so it's probable."

A scan of a younger me with a cowlick and a very young Winnie

Puppy Winnie 

2. This has inevitably led to, "The kitty said he loves me!"

Ian: "We should get a hairless cat someday so you won't be allergic to it."

Laura: "Okay. They're ugly as hell, but I could deal with it if I could hold them. I never get to hold Spottswood and Harvey."

Ian: "They're intrigued by you."

Laura: "I know. They love me. I mean, they tell me all the time..."

3. We constantly imitate the chickens...

...Meaning I constantly ask Ian to imitate the chickens. Polly's cluck is light and charming, Caroline's is loud and screechy, and Marjorine sounds like a duck.

Here's a video of Ian imitating Polly, Caroline, and Marjorine, in that order.

Harvey and Winnie got overly excited when the camera came out, so there's a bit of me loudly objecting.

We should have re-shot the video, but Winiferd in the Burbs hasn't yet reached that level of journalistic excellence. We pride ourselves on slapping together the most half-assed media you've ever seen.

So watch the video!

Shitting on the Clock: Rekindling the Worker's Movement

I don't know if you've noticed, but the economy has been lagging a bit lately. Everyone's predicting doom and gloom and anxiously awaiting the days when gas costs twenty bucks a gallon and no one can afford food.

Then there's the unemployment, decreasing wages, and hyper-inflation. The lucky ones with jobs cling to them, taking on added, unpaid labor because damn, I'm so lucky to be employed.

Furthermore, the U.S. remains the only advanced nation with no mandatory vacation or sick days for its workers.

While most companies allow workers two weeks of vacation per year, every other advanced nation gets approximately four to eight weeks off and demands that workers use these vacation days. 

On the other hand, many U.S. employees fail to even use their paltry two weeks off, fearing negative repercussions from employers.

In the U.S., we strive to worker longer and dumber, rather than shorter and smarter. So you can imagine why U.S. employees might start to feel burnt-out, run-down, and apathetic.

I asked Winnie and Spottswood to write a guest post for the blog, highlighting ways mistreated, downtrodden workers can rebel against the system.

Here are their tips to win the race against the clock, challenge the rules, and beat the system.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors, Spottswood and Winifred, and do not necessarily reflect the official policy, position, or beliefs of any agency of Winiferd in the Burbs, including its creator and writer, Laura, or its cartoonist, Ian.

1. Form a prayer circle at work. Invite all colleagues to join a morning prayer ritual. Take prayer requests and volunteer to say the prayer. Make the prayer as long-winded, verbose, and rambling as possible. 

Maximize the time spent in the prayer circle. Strive to cut at least half an hour from your work day. In the process, you will also gain brownie points from your religious co-workers. 

To cut even more time, bring a Bible and offer to read several pages. Try to spark discussion. You may be able to cut an entire hour from your work-day. People love the Bible.

2. Adopt an extracurricular activity. Let's be honest: a lot of people can finish their work for the day in about three hours.

That leaves an entire five hours everyday in which employees can gain useful skills or knowledge.

Take on a useful hobby that enhances creativity and vision.

Learn a new language. Balance your budget. Research ways to start your own non-profit. Research ways to start your own for-profit.

Or start writing a blog. Not that we'd know anything about that. Since we're a cat and a dog.

3. Try to work from home. At least ask. It's worth a shot.

4. Take plenty of bathroom breaks. See title above.

5. Smoke Breaks. Coffee Breaks. Water Breaks. Take breaks that aren’t counted as your corporate-issued 15 minutes. You can pick up the habit second-hand. Get a buddy who smokes and break whenever they break.

6.  Use your vacation days. Actually use them. Rebel against sick corporate culture. Also, use your sick days.

If your company grants you two weeks of sick days per year in addition to two weeks of vacation days, you can figure that's about four full weeks of vacation.

7. Drink on your lunch break. You have an entire hour in which to make the rest of the work day bearable.

Bar hop.

Sample the lunch-time dollar margaritas at any Mexican restaurant.

Or go the old-fashioned route and pour rum in your coke in the company break-room.

8. Nap on the clock.

a. Tell your co-workers you left important work materials in your car. Go to your car and sneak in a power-nap.

b. Find a secluded, rarely-used maintenance closet to sleep in. Find one that only the Friday cleaning lady uses. One that locks from the inside.

9. Create a workplace computer emergency. Unplug one of the network cables. Throw a breaker in the breaker box. Let your creativity flow on this one.

10. What’s for lunch? Never pay for meals again thanks to the generosity of others. Keep on eye on the frozen dinners and to-go boxes people stash and forget in the fridge.

Snag them just before they go bad. 

And those are our tips. Thank you for reading our very first guest post!

We're tired now. Good-bye.

Spottswood's Best Friend

Laura: "Spottswood's teacher asked everyone to write about their best friend today. And Spottswood wrote about you. He told the class that his daddy is his best friend."

Ian: "Awww. That makes me sad. All the other kids have best friends in school, but Spottswood doesn't. He only has me."

Laura: "The other boys tease him because he loves ballet and doesn't play sports. Bobby and Timmy are pretty mean to him sometimes."

Ian: "Awww. Poor Spottswood. I need to schedule a meeting with his teacher."

Laura: "That's a good idea."

Ian: "You're giving me a complex. I keep forgetting that in real life, Spottswood sleeps at home all day, plays with the dog, and probably isn't gay."

Laura: "'Probably' being the operative word."

A Day in the Life of Harvard Nathaniel

Laura (In the kitchen): "Harvey's about to throw up."

Ian (In the hall): "I can hear him."

Laura: "Ewww. He barfed. They're all crowded around it."

Ian: "It's a feeding frenzy."

It's like Christmas.

Laura: "THEY'RE ALL INHALING HIS THROW UP. COME LOOK AT THIS."

Ian: "Gross. No."

Laura: "SERIOUSLY. THIS IS SO DISGUSTING. LOOK."

Ian: "It'll ruin my appetite."

Laura: "SPOTTSWOOD AND WINNIE ATE ALL OF IT."

Ian: "It's the breakfast of champions."

Laura: "HARVEY'S EATING MORE CAT FOOD. HE'S ALREADY HUNGRY AGAIN."

Ian: "I'll bet he is."

Afterwards: Shame. Disgust. Internal loathing.

Man, did you see that!? That was totally gross!

Spottswood's Close-Up

Spottswood recently informed me that he's been feeling left-out. As one of our more sensitive little buddies, I take pains to listen to him and to acknowledge his feelings.

He's had a rough couple of months. First, Daddy had an affair with a kitten named Solo. Fortunately, Solo grew out of his adorable kitten stage and the affair ended. But not before traumatizing poor Spottswood.

Luckily, Ian and Spottswood have patched up their relationship.

Then we got chickens. I don't know if you've noticed, but every blog post for the past month has concerned the baby chicks.

Winnie and Harvey don't really care. Winnie is extremely affable, wriggling with excitement at something as simple as going to the bathroom or walking down the hall.

And Harvey sleeps so much that he's only dimly aware that he even has a mommy and daddy.

But Spottswood feels jealous over the chicks. I've explained to him that babies need lots of extra attention. Plus, there's about a forty percent chance we're going to eat the chicks anyways.

Nevertheless, Spottswood has been feeling some intense sibling rivalry. To make it up to him, I promised Spottswood I would snap some modeling shots of him and display them on the blog.

Spottswood was ecstatic. He watches America's Next Top Model every week and takes note of the fashion photographers' modeling advice. Tyra Banks is kind of his hero.

Here's our fabulous boy smiling with his eyes:

When New Daddy Had an Affair

Ian works with a house cat. I repeat: Ian works with a house cat. I feel this fact alone should negate any work-related whining. Of course, everyone whines about work: bad days and stressful times are universal and inevitable.

But, again, he works with a house cat. I think I'd sail into work every morning, smiling manically, if my office offered a poodle or a cage full of gerbils. Or, you know, a house cat.

The first cat Ian worked with was named Pepper, but Pepper passed away a few months ago.

Enter Pepper's replacement: a five-month old kitten with enormous eyes, a tiny frame, and a darling nature. His name is Solo. He clings to people and loves to play. He's adorable.

Solo the kitten

As you can imagine, Ian's in love. And Spottswood's jealous.

This is my Daddy, and I don't share him.

Every evening, Ian returns home from work smelling like another cat. Last night I had to tell Spottswood the painful truth: Daddy's having an affair.

Daddy's having a what now?

Spottswood recoils at a Daddy who "reeks" of another cat. (Spottswood's word; not mine). Spottswood stares in wide-eyed horror as he breathes in the "stench" of that "harlot." (Again, Spottswood's words).

I've implored Spottswood to please refrain from such language, encouraging him to use more delicate terms such as "courtesan," "comfort cat," "feline escort," "kitty masseuse," "kitty of negotiable affections," "one night cat," or "kitty of easy virtue."

I've encouraged Spottswood to discuss his feelings with Daddy. Instead, Spottswood runs away in disgust the minute he gets a whiff of Solo on Ian's clothes. The reality of the affair is too much for him.

Comforting Spottswood 

These work-place affairs wreak havoc on families. I'm hoping we can all move on from this. 

But Ian's really enamored with Solo. We're taking it day-by-day. I hope for a positive update in the future. Pray for us.

The Greenhouse

When you write a blog, you look for the absurd moments in life. You seize on the wild and unpredictable because those things make really, really, really good writing material.

But sometimes you wake up in the morning, realize you haven't posted all week, and panic because you have absolutely nothing interesting to say.

Then you glance around the kitchen and hope a rhino will suddenly smash through the walls, snorting, roaring, shrieking, and charging. Because that stuff makes for great blogging.

You guys, my life is boring right now. Work is monotonous. I sit all day.

Remember when you were a kid, and college was the key? And once you finished college, you would have a meaningful, interesting life because you would have a meaningful, interesting job?

WELL THEY LIED. PEOPLE WHO WORK IN WINDOWLESS CUBICLES HATE THEIR LIVES.

My life is so boring, I once took a detour home, thinking I'd feel dangerous and wild.

Ian: "Egads! Laura is late. In another hour, I shall file her as a missing person."

Laura: "LOL. I am wild! And dangerous! And LATE!"

Instead I arrived home at the same time I always arrive home.

Luckily when I arrive home from work, I return to these knuckleheads:

I think Ian and I are still trying to figure out what the hell we want to do in life. It seems a shame to waste an entire life in a windowless cubicle.

Especially when I'm wishing the hours away, impatient to get home to New Daddy, encased in dirt and grime, and three furry hoodlums who have spent the day dragging our clothes all over the house, digging through the plants, and exploring the cabinets.

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SPOTTSWOOD, THAT'S WHERE WE KEEP THE ANT POISON).

Did someone say poison?

That's how it goes, I suppose. While we're at work, the baby sniffs out the poison. IT'S A METAPHOR FOR LIFE. THE CAT'S IN THE CRADLE AND THE SILVER SPOON.

Ian understands my frustrations, and we're slowly plotting our escape. I mentioned the greenhouse a few weeks ago. It's almost finished. It's a bit haphazard, but it's beautiful.