I'm as awesome as it gets.

Sure, there are times each day when we say to ourselves "Wow, I'm pretty awesome... I'm so clever that I amaze myself."  We all say that.

Like, one might need to turn the sprinkler on.  But one might also know that one can't yet walk on the newly-stained deck.  So one might complain to one's husband about having to go around to the backyard through the front door, and back again.  But one would still manage.  The problem emerges when, even after all that trouble, one forgets that the sprinkler should NOT be turned on so high that a shower of water falls over said newly-stained deck, despite one's careful efforts to avoid stepping on the damn thing.  If something like that were to happen, in theory, one might think of oneself as pretty awesome.

Or, one might think one was awesome if one used the new kettle for months and months - and, at every single friggin use, complained about how short the goddam cord was - before having it pointed out that the cord is simply tucked up underneath the base of the godforsaken thing.  That'd be pretty awesome, if something like that were, hypothetically, to occur.

Now, we all know that I am one of these awesome people.  I don't need to explain it any further.  It's already quite clear.  I know it.  You know it.  It's not some new revelation.

But I have new evidence, and I just couldn't resit sharing it, because there are some things that make me, in particular, especially awesome.  There are some things that no one else can top.

Exhibit A:

It's possible that I recently bought new underwear.  Nothing too awesome there - a normal, average thing for a person to do.

The awesomeness comes in when I squirm all day in my new underwear, thinking something is wrong with my pants, until I realize that I'm wearing my new underwear backwards.  Yes, backwards.  Wrong-side-front.  Right-side-wrong.  Tight and tiny in some places.  Loose and baggy in others.

Oh, and it gets better.

This has happened twice.

That's right.  Twice.

I made this mistake once, with new underwear that I was not yet fully familiar with.  That's fair.  Anyone could do that.  But then, not a week later, I made the same damn mistake, with the same damn pair of new damn underwear.

So, there's really no disputing it.  I am as awesome as it gets.  There is no way around it.  I bring awesome to a whole new level that none of you amateurs can even dream of competing with.  I am the ultimate, most spectacular, greatest form of awesome that there ever was.  I am the Guinness Book of World Records record-holder for awesome.  There are few rivals in my realm of awesome.  George Dub-yah Bush, maybe, but he's been disqualified for doping.  I am the awesome heavy-weight champion.  I dare you to try and beat me.  I double-dog dare you.  I triple-nipple dare you. to. beat. me.   You can't top that.  It cannot be done.  ...But I wish you all the world's luck in trying. 

Crunch, crunch, crunch

Hubby and I were awakened out of a blissful sleep at 5:00 this morning.  We could hear Patches making loud crying noises.  

Nothing too out of the ordinary, really.  She often makes that angry drowning cat sound when she's about to throw up.  (She sometimes inhales her food too quickly and then runs away to throw up her un-chewed pellets.  Don't worry... she eats them right back up again.)

Anyway, her sounds melded into my dream until my subconscious was trying to rescue a cat from the back of some random kitchen cabinet.  Hubby pulled me out of my half-dream when he said "sounds like Patchy's throwing up."  "Mm hmm" I answered, trying to ignore it. 

But he was awake, and when Hubby wakes up, he has to go to the bathroom - he can't just go back to sleep... that would be silly.  So he climbed out of bed, walked by Patches at the top of the stairs ("You ok, Patchy?") and went into his bathroom.   

I was trying to go back to sleep, but I could hear something else.

 Crunch, crunch, crunch. 


I thought, hmm, she must be eating regurgitated pellets.  But then it started to sink in.

Hubby came out of the bathroom and I mumbled "She's crunching on something."

He went back to the bathroom to turn on the light , and then back to look at the cat.   

"It's a mouse!" he confirmed. 

Yep.  I friggin KNEW it.  I knew it.  "I knew it!"

That's why I didn't get up and check for myself.  I had a sneaking suspicion.  And in our house, all mouse-related hi-jinks are Hubby's department.  I want nothing to do with them.  (In fact, once, at our former house, I ran out of our kitchen into the living room, perched myself on top of the arm of the couch, leaned across the door frame to the phone, and called my mother in a panic when I thought I saw one under the stove.  True story.  I just can't deal with rodents.)

When I finally sat up to look at Patch, Hubby was slouched over, arms out-stretched, in his 15-year-old and barely-there (but apparently very comfortable) "sleeping underwear", chasing our fat cat down the stairs.

When he retrieved Patches it was apparent that she had very effectively eaten most of the mouse's face.  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

"Good job Patchy"  he said.  Congratulating her on her catch.  Nice.

"Ew!  Wash her!"  I said.

Yes, I wanted him to wash all the mouse guts out of her mouth.  Not an unreasonable request, I don't think.

"Are you kidding me?!"

"No, she's probably got bones and blood and diseases all over her!"

"Oh my God..."

"Just do it!"

So, Hubby went and got one of his facecloths and held down a very squirmy and unhappy Patches while he scrubbed her face.

This morning we weren't sure whether to praise or punish her.  In any case, her new nickname is Mouse Mouth.  Yummy. 

This post also appears at Cheesy Bloggers. 
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