Pizza Hell

Anyone who knows me well knows I dislike pizza. And yes, before you ask, let me reiterate I've eaten pizza before. Many, many, WAY too many times over my entire life.

I started out disliking pizza because I can't stand marinara sauce or most things tomato-y. And, until fairly recently in American culture, pizza without marinara sauce didn't exist. These new razzle-dazzle pizzas brushed with olive oil or encrusted with tofu, or goat cheese (3 kinds!) that you can order today in fancier pizza restaurants just weren't around back when I was growing up.

Pizza was a slab of round dough, covered with bright red tomato sauce, then layered with mounds of cheese and/or various types of salty processed meat.

And I *loathed* it.

So when the Alternative Pizzas began showing up over the last 10 years or so (artichoke heart and pineapple pizza! WHEE), I thought, hey, maybe I'll finally find a pizza I like.

But I didn't. No matter how innocuous they made the pizza, I still couldn't stomach it.

Part of the problem is, I'm just not that fond of bread or anything remotely like bread. Don't get me wrong, I really love the stuff we layer *inside* sammiches. But you'll never hear me say,

"Man, I'd just LOVE to get sum BREAD in mah belly!".

Oh no. You're never going to hear those words leave my mouth. Now, you might hear me say, "Man, I'd just LOVE to get me sum POTATOES in mah belly."

In fact, I've been known to actually say those very words. And frequently, too.

But bread? Nope. As a matter of fact when eating a burger or a subway sandwich, I usually end up taking a few bites, then surreptitiously pull out the innards and eat all the yummy insides without the yucky floofy bread parts. I even rip the bread up a bit when in public and leave it scattered about on my plate, to make it look like I ate more of the bread than I did and thus avoid offending the sensibilities of all you bread lovers out there.

Then there's the salt issue. I'm not a big fan of salt. And pizza is incredibly salty. Whenever I'm cooking and I ask someone to taste my sauce or soup, they invariably suggest I add more salt. No matter how much salt I've already used, they always suggest more. For all you salt-heads out there, I salute you but I do not share your passion for the whitest of the seasonings.

No. No, I do not.

Plus, aesthetically speaking, I do not care for the way pizza tends to glisten. Have you noticed that? It...glistens. So shiny. Almost...obscene, in a way.

This is typically the point where I'm given an incredulous look and asked with disgust if I'm a Communist.

Oh please, that's just not true. Although, to give credit where credit is due, on paper Communism seems pretty cool. Everyone shares, just like in Kindergarten, one for all and all for one, just one big happy family together. But even I know that if you dig a little bit more into the reality of how Communism actually works it fails miserably as a viable form of government.

Unless you're one of the lucky few in the upper echelon class. In the society where there are no *cough* class *cough* divisions. *ahem*

So, no, I'm not a Commie just because I don't like Pizza. I'm a loyal American, I love our capitalism, I love being a mindless consumer, I love our freedom, I love being able to say, "Fuck YOU, American Government!" if I want to and not be dragged off to jail for being a dangerous political agitator.

stops and looks around

Well, I *think* I can still say that.

If this blog goes silent after this post, I guess we'll all know why.

So yes, I love being an American and I particularly love American food. I love fried chicken, steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, turkey, french fries, ham, scalloped potatoes, bacon, eggs-over-easy, fried potatoes, apple pie, hash brown potatoes, ice cream, baby red potatoes roasted with rosemary and olive oil, fruit salad, twice-baked potatoes, au gratin potatoes, potato soup, POTATO SALAD...OM NOM NOM NOM!

And I love international foods too, because I'm the kind of American who actually realizes there are *other countries* in the world outside America. Yes, yes, there are Americans like me who understand other countries exist, I know because I'm one of them. Rare though we are.

I love Japanese food, Chinese food, Italian food, Mexican food, Thai food, German, Indian, Spanish, and even French food. Even British food! I love a good shepherd's pie.

But no pizza.

However, this is a Pizza Loving World I live in and I accept that. I do. I know I'm in a very small minority group that is often eyed with suspicion. I'm a lot like that Goth kid back in high school; clothing and hair dyed black, wearing uber macro eye makeup, sitting in the back of the room picking sullenly at my dark purple fingernails during History class and hoping everyone was being suitably impressed by my obvious angst.

Definitely the odd one out when it comes to pizza.

Except, for me it's not by choice. I really wish I loved pizza too; it would make my life much easier.

I'm a fitter-inner; I don't like being the outcast.

But it's okay, really; not only have I come to terms with being different, but I support my Pizza Loving Friends and Family. Over the years, I've even ordered pizza for dinner when we've had people over. For one thing, it's the only food around here that is delivered cheaply and BONUS! Nobody has to cook. I love watching people enjoy their food, even if it's food I don't care for. I simply order a salad and/or pasta dish for me and everyone else can snarf up as much pizza as they want. Nommers.

So I never make a fuss when someone says they want to go to a pizza place. Although usually someone else in the family brings it up; "But Mom/Annie doesn't like pizza."

Oy.

And I'm forced to explain once again that it's okay we are going to a pizza place, that I can find something else to eat there, really, it's not a big deal, please stop saying "we can go somewhere else if you want to, Annie" because that makes me feel bad.

I don't mind watching other people eat pizza; I just don't want any of it myself.

The other night we ended up at a pizza place for a family get-together and there were 9 of us there. Family, Happiness, Goodness YAY. Everyone ordered their nasty pizzas, with some meatball sandwiches on the side to boot (shudder, shudder) and I ordered my usual pasta with mushrooms, garlic and white sauce.

Our waitress brought "breadsticks" before the main course arrived; which were basically naked pizza crusts with cups of marinara sauce to dip them in. Rather horrifying for me but the platter was plunked down in the middle of the table and I was on the end, so I didn't have to look too closely at it.

So we're all talking and laughing, having a great time. Good times all around.

Then the pizzas came. Not on the flat platters that go down on the table as God intended platters to do but perched up on high on these pedestal platters that raised the pizzas up in the air.

So we could all get a super close-up shot of all that cheese and meat and shininess.

And the waitress plopped one tall platter of greasy pizza right in front of me.

I mean, like right under my nose.

Gulping, I feebly shoved the platter a little bit away and tried not to look at it.

Everyone else oohed and ahhed at the enormous amounts of glistening (except me) and everyone else started grabbing and passing around slices (except me) and everyone else began to devour their food and meatball sammiches (except me).

I kinda sat there in shock, trying to look at something other than the pizza. Which was seriously freaking me out.

My pasta didn't come. Several minutes went by while I waited and tried not to look at anything and my pasta still didn't come.

Just as I was about to hail our waitress, she showed up with a bowl, shoving it onto the table in front of me, right under the high-top platter of pizza. In fact, my bowl of pasta was actually shadowed, literally, by the pizza tower.

I looked down at my shadowed pathetic pasta and as usual they had gone overboard with the white sauce so it was swimming in a little soup of its own.

Not only had they completely drowned the pasta with goo, but they had also snuck in some freshly cut tomatoes.

Those sneaky pizza people and their tomato-fetish.

Because of the platter covering my plate, I had some difficulty getting my fork from the bowl of soup pasta up to my mouth without bumping the bottom of the giant pizza tray but I managed it for a while. Then eventually gave up.



The horror...the horror...

Ring Around the Rosies

The other day when LuBear stayed with us while Jason and Laura moved to their new house, I remembered the old game "Ring Around the Rosies". Although I can't imagine anyone reading who doesn't know this ancient children's game, it goes like this; you hold hands and walk slowly in a circle while chanting the following:

Ring around the rosies
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, ashes,
We all...fall...DOWN!

When you say "down", everyone falls down. Little kids love this game because it's fast, it's simple and they can do it before they can sing it.

Taking Lucy's hands in mine, I began to sing and go in a circle and Lucy walked along with me.

However, as the end of the game loomed, it slowly dawned on me that, 1) I was going to have to fall down on a hardwood floor, 2) the last time I played this game I was (*ahem!*) several pounds lighter than I am now, and 3) I'm 54, not 20 months old.

When I fall down nowadays, or get down on the floor for any reason, I'm definitely concerned about the process of getting back up again.

And did I mention my knees have been shot since my 20's, due to riding/jumping and/or jogging on cement too much?

Yeah.

So when the big moment came and it was time to "fall down", I sort of lurched over awkwardly and tried to collapse onto the floor gently without doing too much damage. Even though I tried to use my hands as much as possible to absorb the shock, I still ended up wincing as my knees hit the unyielding wood. LuBear eagerly followed suit, flinging herself with abandon onto the hard floor, giggling happily.

At only 20 months when she falls, intentional or not, she practically bounces off the floor, she's that flexible and light.

Her Nana? Not so much.

Which brings me to another flaw in bringing up this game. One of Lucy's favorite words is "again".

"Again!" she squealed.

Oh good god.

"Again?" I asked, hoping against hope maybe I heard her wrong.

"AGAIN! AGAIN!" Lucy clapped her hands excitedly.

Great.

So around we went again, this time with Lucy pulling on me with all her strength, trying to fall early in anticipation the way kids always do.

Oy.

When we reached the end, I let go of her hands and gleefully she plopped onto the ground without a care in the world, waiting with a huge grin for Nana to join her.

Nana groaned while she did her unintended imitation of a walrus sunning itself on the beach.

"AGAIN!" Lucy shrieked.

Nana tried to smile.

"What about 'e i e i o'?" I asked, trying to divert her to another favorite, "Old MacDonald Had A Farm" which has the wonderful benefit of no physical challenges.

"AGAIN!"

OY.

We had to play Ring Around the Rosies at least 8 more times, my knees getting more and more upset about it, 'til Nana finally had to say "no more, Lu" which brought on an instant barrage of noisy protests.

"AaaaAAAAAAAaaAAAAAAAA, AGAIN AGAIN!" she screamed, tears rolling down her face.

But although one of the worst things in the world for Nana is seeing little LuBear crying her heart out, Nana and her crackling sore knees were all done.

Thus goes the story of Nana's Epic Fail at Teh Ring Around the Rosies.

(By the way, in case anyone is interested, I found out that, although Daws teased me about teaching an innocent young child a rhyme that actually refers to the Black Plague, there is no basis to that old rumor and some version of "Ring Around the Something" where you fall down at the end is very old and present in most cultures worldwide. Who knew?!?)

Load...That...Washer

"Owwww! DAMN!"

"What happened, Annie?"

"I sliced my thumb open with a steak knife while loading the dishwasher!"

Wincing, I stuck my poor bleeding thumb under the kitchen faucet, rinsing the blood away and still muttering little "ow ow ow ow's" under my breath.

"Lemme see." Daws examined my thumb and made sympathetic noises.

"Want me to get you a bandaid, babe?"

"No...I have to finish rinsing and loading."

Even I didn't buy my overly-exaggerated martyred tone. But Daws chose to indulge me.

"I'll finish, Annie, you go sit down."

Making a few feeble protests, mostly for show, I caved almost immediately and went to sit on a bar stool.

Daws started to slide the packed dishwasher racks in when he stopped, exclaiming, "What kind of mentally challenged individual loaded this washer?"

Actually, he said, "What kind of retard loaded this washer?" but that's un-PC, so I changed it.

"What's wrong with the way I loaded it?" Bristling.

Giving a short, rather condescending laugh, he shook his head and started the washer up, saying, "I'll show you how to load properly next time I do it."

Are you friggin' KIDDING ME? Daws, I've watched the way you load the dishwasher and it's WRONG! All WRONG!

In fact, ALL of you reading this probably load your dishwashers the wrong way. Honestly. I've seen other people's dishwasher-loading skillz and it's pretty ugly out there.

This should be a new reality show. Contestants load a dishwasher, then a panel of qualified judges come by and rate everyone on how well they did.

Why not?

They have a reality show on *haircuts* for god's sake. Why not household chores?

New reality show: "Fill! That! Fridge!" Contestants are given random groceries and told to pack a refrigerator. They are judged on speed, creativity and practicality. Think of the drama! What if your groceries contained items you'd never packed a fridge with before!? What if you broke an egg? Ran out of time? Insanity! Mayhem! Entertainment galore!

I'd SO WATCH THAT SHOW!

I'm writing Mark Burnett about it right now, right this second.

Make a fortune.

Oscars

One sentence reviews of the 2010 Academy Award Best Picture Nominees (WARNING! Semi-Spoilers):

The Hurt Locker - New Hotdog shows up in Iraq breaking all the rules, existing crew is hostile to New Hotdoggger, several obvious bait-and-switches by the Bad Guys, stereotypical scene of clueless liberal soldier gettin' what's comin' to 'im, war is bad, war changes people, all with nonstop nauseating shaky cam Cinéma vérité pretentiousness.

Inglourious Basterds - Quentin Tarantino reboots World War II as a surreal western starring Brad Pitt who miraculously doesn't act like Brad Pitt, one of the most Evil Nazi SS characters EVAR is introduced and best opening movie scene on record.

Precious - Poor, abused black teenager overcomes wrenching poverty and ignorance, shockingly good acting jobs by all involved, even Mariah Carey can apparently act (YES YOU HEARD ME, MARIAH CAREY CAN ACT! And very well!) and you'll bawl like a baby at the end. (my choice for Best Pic, although I don't think it will win)

An Education - Overly educated young British girl loses her virginity, almost to a banana, in the early 60's and is labeled a whore for this by Emma Thompson, but prevails despite it all.

The Blind Side - Sandra Bullock and a cast of nobody else I know gets involved in the life of a young black boy from the ghetto and everyone in her family is so nice and so perfect you'll cry and wish someone rich had adopted you when you were a teenager, too.

Up - An old man ties balloons to his house and flies away with a young Boy Scout; adventures ensue but not pervy ones, as the previous statement seems to suggest, just really really boring ones.

Up In The Air - George Clooney posturing and mugging as himself while flying all over the country firing people, gets involved with a woman who pwns him, tries to teach people life is meaningless and the movie ends rather flatly and pompously, as if the message was, "Hey, did you know the economy sucks right now?" and you're supposed to react, "GEE WOW REALLY? WHO KNEW??"

District 9 - Aliens come to Earth, spewing vomit and disgusting fluids everywhere and are treated badly in return, shaky cam in full effect to give that "gritty realism" directors love so much these days, broad comparisons to apartheid and racism drawn, mockumentary style a'la Borat, and blah blah blah, zzzzzzzz....so very boring.

Avatar - White men of European descent can always do everything better than the indigenous tribes they've come to conquer; taking over their leadership positions, impregnating their women and even becoming their species, too, if necessary because White Men of European Descent are just that good at it.

UPDATE! We just now watched the final contender, A Serious Man, hours before the Oscars:

"American Beauty" meets "A Beautiful Mind" meets "The Burbs" but for Jews instead of Goyim (not that there's anything wrong with that).

You're Doing It Wrong

It's strange finding myself on the other side of parenting; the grandparenting side.

I'm not raising the little one this time around; she has two awesome parents for that.

Now I'm in the position of being the "older generation". And I'm telling you, I'm amazed my kids even made it to adulthood. For one thing, child car seats didn't have to be specially fitted into our cars; we just stuck them on the seat and strapped the seat belt around them. As a matter of fact, when I went home from the hospital with Newborn Baby Laura, I held her in my lap the whole way; we didn't even HAVE a car seat yet. Although it was on the list of Things We Needed For The Baby When We Could Afford It.

And food. I don't remember exactly when I started giving the kids solids but it seems to me it was pretty early on. Oatmeal, I believe, at 4 months or so. Eventually I would grind up whatever was grindable from what we were eating and spoon it into their mouths. As they learned how to grasp, I'd chop up foods we ate and put it on their highchair tray. And we'd all eat together.

When Laura was around 7 months, she choked on a piece of bacon that I hadn't cut up quite small enough, or maybe it was just the taste of fatty, processed pork that set her off. Grabbing her up out of her high chair, I gave her a little mini-baby-Heimlich maneuver.

No doubt that is the exact opposite of what one should do for choking babies in 2010 but in 1978 it worked and the piece of bacon flew spectacularly across the room.

Then we both cried.

For a long time after that, the only pig-oriented food Laura got was cut-up bologna or hotdogs.

What? It was OSCAR MEYER, SHUT UP!

So I thought nothing of sharing my fried egg sandwich with Lucy the other day when we were taking care of her. She's 9 months old now, going on 10, and she likes to nom on whatever the people around her are nomming on. This is a good thing, babies thrive on this, it's tribal, it's natural.

"EH!" she says when we are eating, reaching out her little hand. Of course I'm going to oblige her, right?

So Lucy and I nommed companionably on my fried egg sandwich together; I'd take a bite, then I'd give her a Lucy-sized bite. She especially loved the runny eggy part, so I gave her as much as she wanted. She loved it.

C'mon, what is simpler than an egg? It's a classic. Imminently NOM-ABLE! And whole wheat bread! A staple food for multiple generations of human beings! Right?

Egg sammich! It's totally made for babies!

Imagine how floored I was the other day when the five of us were at a pizza place for lunch and I tried to give Lucy a piece of my bread roll only to hear...

"Mom, what are you doing?" Laura's tone was definitely disapproving.

Uh-oh...

"Giving Lucy a piece of bread?" I froze, bread fragment in my hand all ready to go, Lucy's mouth open and waiting like a baby bird, ready for some yummy pizza-place roll-action.

"No, Mom, she can't have bread yet." Laura stared at me, incredulous that her mother could be so clueless about the Evils of Bread when it comes to babies.

Dropping the tidbit back onto my plate, I threw a beseeching look at Dawson. Because everyone who knows me can read everything I'm thinking all over my face and I knew that Laura was going to find out...

"Mom...?"

"What?" Keeping my voice bright and casual, struggling to keep the guilty tone out.

"Mom...did you already give her bread before this?"

"Well..." Trying not to wince.

"MOM!"

"Well...um....yes and no. Technically, it was toast."

Laura shook her head, amused and slightly annoyed, both. "She's not supposed to have wheat yet, in case she's allergic."

"It was just a little bit," I lied, "Just a smidgen of my fried egg sandwich."

"WHAT?! You gave her egg, too?? She's not supposed to have egg yet, either, Mom. Not until she's a year old."

"Oh...." Again I looked over at Daws, hoping he'd back me up, but he put up his hands and shook his head silently with a, "You're on your own, babe" husbandly shrug.

Great.

We all looked at Lucy who by now was pointing at her mouth frantically, pantomiming that she wanted more bread, Nana.

Okay, not really. But it might have helped if she had.

"But she really liked it, Laura," I said weakly.

Laura glared, then smiled and sighed.

Honestly, I never thought I'd feel so out of the loop. So I raised two kids, so what, what do I know? Apparently not much. We gave our kids eggs and bread and obviously bacon, or whatever we were eating and only now, all these years later, do I realize it's a miracle they lived through my pathetic parenting skills.

We all stopped at Stark's on our way home for some Happy Hour goodness. Since I hate pizza and had only had a roll and a small salad, I ordered a meatloaf slider. Only $1.50 but that's $1.50 packed full of pure happiness and WIN.

As we chatted and laughed together, I kept giving Lucy little bites of my meatloaf slider, relieved she wasn't allergic to bread after all and a potentially disastrous situation had been narrowly averted...

"MOM...?!"

"What?" God, it was the same tone she'd had at the pizza place.

"What are you feeding her?"

"....meatloaf slider?" I said in a small voice.

"SHE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEF YET, MOM!"

Oh. Jeez...

We all looked at Lucy, happily chewing and smacking over the meatloaf.

"But Laura...she likes it."

Laura shook her head and sighed. Again.

Oy. Poor Nana just can't get a break.

Two Vignettes

LuBear

Saturday lunch at Rossos restaurant I was the first to notice Laura pushing Lucy through the restaurant doors in the monstrous stroller all parents seem to have today. A combo of stroller, car-seat, drink holder, purse holder, diaper-bag-holder and all-around mobile-baby-carrier, this thing is about as sturdy as a tank and almost as maneuverable. As Laura performed the universal "mommy-hand-and-foot-plant" against one door so she could shove Lucy's super-sonic-state-of-the-art-stroller inside, I gave them both a big smile and waved excitedly. Roseanne, my sister visiting from NYC and Daws turned around, smiling and waving too.

And Little LuBear waved back at us. Except...she didn't wave like an almost-8-month old baby waves, but regally. Solemnly. As if she was "Queen Elizabeth Baby". Or "Jackie O Baby". Accepting our homage as her rightful due. Laura pushed her pram closer to us (yeah, I said pram, it sounds more regal, like everything Brit; even "loo" sounds more regal than our American "toilet"), Lucy kept waving her little hand slowly back and forth. For all the world like a monarch sitting perched on a parade float surrounded by throngs of admirers; her slight, mysterious Mona Lisa smile firmly in place.

Once she was parked at our table and greetings were exchanged, I was sure LuBear was going to give a speech on how to cope with the current economy, or perhaps say a few words about the deplorable Tiger Woods situation but apparently her natural discretion and good manners won out and she ended up politely drinking her bottle instead; nodding and winking at us with glee as we pulled in turn at our wine glasses.

Okay, I made the last part up.

But I wouldn't put it past her.

*****************************
The Ubiquitous Cat Story

The other night while the Hubs and I were quietly watching TV, we both heard an odd, disturbing sound:

"OooOOooOO...OooOOooOOOOOoo...". Looking at each other in confusion, Daws paused the DVR and we heard it again, louder this time.

"Whoooo...OOOOO...OOoOOoOOOO...OooOOwhoooOOOoo..."

Ghostly moans. Right out of an old horror flick or when you were kids and turned all the lights out, trying to scare each other.

All the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I broke into a cold sweat. Daws' eyes were popping and we slowly looked all around us, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.

Suddenly we realized it was coming from our fireplace hearth, where our two three-year old black-n-white cats, The Boyz, The Bruthers, were curled up sleeping on their cat beds. It's their favorite place to be, especially when the fireplace, or "Hot Wall", as they like to refer to it, is burning.

At first I wondered if it was some kind of air flow coming down through the vents of the fireplace making the strange sounds but as I moved closer to check it out, it was clear that our little Jakie was making the noise:


Unlike the picture above, Jakie had fallen asleep with the front of his entire face mashed tightly up against the side of his bed. In his feline cat-dream, he was apparently "raowing" about something that had upset him. But because his nose and mouth were all squished up, his muffled cries came out as this gawd-awful, spooky weird "ooOOooOOoo" sound.

Reaching out, I gently stroked his head and he started up in sheer terror, obviously still in the throes of his dream/nightmare (perhaps the Hot Wall had turned off forever? Or his brother Woody was trying to mount him again in his periodic incestuous confusion? Who knows?) Glaring about wildly, trying to bridge the consciousness between Sleep-Jakie and Awake-Jakie, at first he tried to sprint away but I stopped him; still petting and talking to him, trying to calm him down. One front leg shot out against the tile surrounding the fireplace; vainly trying to get a grip on the smooth surface, clawing uselessly at nothing.

"Now, now, Jakie...it's all right...it's all right."

Jakie licked his lips and his eyes bulged but gradually he settled down enough so that I could allow him to sit up. As he did so, he looked up at me more than bit dazed and shook himself all over.

"Wow.." he seemed to be saying, "That was one crazy dream, Mommy!"

Tell me about it. It scared the hell out of us, too.

I just wish we knew the details. I think it would probably make a great movie.

"Attack of the Giant Mouse"
"Global Warming Causes 'Hot Wall' To Burn Out Forever"
"My Brother and His Issues; Dude, I'm Not Gay and Neither Are You, Besides We Were Both Fixed, WTF?"

Just Another Day In Paradise

Every so often, my son Ryan calls me on his way out to a job to chit-chat over the phone. I don't flatter myself that he's calling so much because he finds his mom's company and wit so fabulously scintillating (although it's true, I'm pretty amazing) but it's more because he's driving and he's bored.

Problem is, Ryan mostly calls me up to complain about all the bad drivers on the road.

"So, what are you doing, Mom?"

"Not much, finishing up in the kitchen before I start my day in the office; you?"

"Oh, I'm driving up to-HEY! YOU! MORON! Try using a blinker, eh? Idiot..." Ryan continues to mutter over the failures and foibles of our fellow human beings' ineffectual driving skills and I wait while he recovers.

"Uh, what were you saying, Mom?"

"Oh we were talking about where you are going now."

"Up north. One of our customers are having a problem with...what the...oh for cryin' out...UH...DO YOU MIND?!! Oh my GOD!"

I continue rinsing out the coffee pot and wiping off the counters; long ago I stopped thinking Ryan was talking to me when he goes off on a rant. Besides, after being a road-rep for years, I can appreciate what he is saying.

"Yeah, that's right, buddy...it's called MERGE; learn it, do it, LIVE IT. GOD! Where do you people learn to drive? HONESTLY! Are you in that much of a hurry? IS IT THAT IMPORTANT YOU RUN EVERYONE OFF THE ROAD? Oh yeah, you're gonna win the freeway race. Idiot! Um, well...what were you saying, Mom?"

"You were telling me you're going up north on a job..."

"OH RIGHT! Okay, yeah, so I'm headed up north to work on this job because the customer..."

That's pretty much how it goes, with funny stories and some philosophical discussions wedged in between the bad driver rants because we share the same sense of humor and similar interests, until I have to start my work day or until Ryan gets to his worksite.

The other morning as Ryan was alternately chatting with me or raving at other drivers and I was finishing up the kitchen, I noticed our Woody Cat bursting in through the cat door and diving under our kitchen table.

And...and...and...he had something large and dark in his mouth.

Oh my god.

Ryan's words faded into the background as a roaring started up in my head, drowning out anything he was saying.

Maybe it's just a piece of bark, Annie, remember that time he brought in a piece of bark? And you were scared at first? Then we laughed and laughed, so funny, so very funny. Yeah, it's just bark, that's what it is. Or a little bird. A dead one. Yup, it's probably a tiny little harmless dead bird, nothing scary, nothing scary, nothing...scar-

As Woody dropped the thing in his mouth onto the rug under the kitchen table all became dreadfully, horrifyingly clear.

A rat. A big, brown, huge, dark, brown, large friggin' RAT! On my kitchen FLOOR! And the tail ALONE was the same size as the body so altogether it was at least good FOOT LONG in size! Maybe even a YARD LONG!

"RAAAAAAT" I screamed over my headset mic into poor Ryan's ear. "A RAT, oh my GOD, Woody brought a rat in the house, there's a RAT IN THE HOUSE!" As I kept screaming and leaping around uselessly, I could hear Ryan echoing my words. "A rat? Woody got a rat? Is it alive, Mom?"

I didn't want to know. As loud as I could, I screamed at Woody to take it outside. Don't laugh, sometimes this works. He'll come in with some kind of prey in his mouth and Daws and I will scream at him so loudly to take it out, he runs back out again and we lock the cat door after him.

"GET OUUUUUT! WOODY GET OUUUUUT! OUUUUUUT! TAKE IT OUUUUUT!" I screamed so loud that my voice was hoarse for hours afterwards. You know, I have no clue what our neighbors think must be going on when the cats bring in vermin because I've done a LOT of screaming off and on over the years but so far the cops haven't been called in.

Yet.

Woody stood there, seemingly confused for a moment, eyes shifting about.

Why is Mommy yelling at me?

Then, grabbing the rat again, he took off. YAY! He's taking it out!

Alas, he ran in the direction of the den. Going towards our bedroom.

"NOOOOOO!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "NOOOOOOO WOODYYYYYYY!"

Ryan was trying to say something in my ear but I couldn't hear a word he said over all the uproar.

"Ryan, there's a rat in the house, gotta go." Ripping the headset off and dropping the phone on the counter, I bolted after Woody and cut him off at the pass, right before the hallway to the back of the house. I kept screaming at him to "take it out/take it out/take it out" but Woody still appeared perplexed.

Wat? R u talking to me?

For an animal that is renowned for unequaled hearing ability, he was singularly unimpressed with all the noise I was making.

See, this is where I needed a male person in the house. I do not take the garbage cans out to the curb, I don't change the tire when it goes flat, I don't take apart the coffee grinder to find out why it doesn't grind anymore, I don't answer the front door late at night and I DO NOT handle trophy vermin that may show up in the house.

The Males do all that.

Problem was...there were no Males around at the moment.

I was on my own.

By this time, I could see that at least it was dead. I knew this because it looked as if something or someone (and I'm not naming names here, but I believe it was a fat spoiled B&W cat who has a penchant for bringing disgusting things in the house) had spent a considerable amount of time gnawing off most of the rat's face.

Lovely.

Woody ran under the dining table in his haste to get away from the crazy human. No doubt thinking, "My GOD, will that hooman woman never stop screaming? What is her problem? IZ GIFT! IZ GIFT FOR HER!"

Again, I stomped and screamed and yelled and shook the heavy wooden chairs and to my relief, Woody took off again and this time in the right direction; towards the back door.

Thank god,, I thought. Then he stopped again under the kitchen table by the cat door and, dropping the rat, walked away nonchalantly. "What rat?" he seemed to be saying. "I see no rat; there's a rat? Wasn't me, I didn't do it, you can't prove anything."

Oh
My
God

Feebly, I tried to yell and knock the bar stools together as impetus, but Woody was officially disinterested in the rat. Not his problem. Not his issue. Unconcerned, he walked off a short distance and began to wash himself, starting behind one ear and carefully working his way around to his blood-thirsty, pain-in-the-ass face.

Great.

Briefly, it crossed my mind that I could call Daws to come home and dispose of it for me. Yeah, he could leave his office and drive all the way here, get rid of the rat while I hid and then he could drive allll the way back to work again, he could, he really could...

But I knew I couldn't ask him to do that.

So, gathering myself together and "penising-up", I marched down the hall to get Daws' gloves that he uses for such purposes. Then I opened up the back door to the garage where we keep the outside cans, propping it with a doorstop so I wouldn't have to fumble about with the rat in my (shudder, shudder, shudder) hands. Stomping back down the hall, I stopped in the kitchen, spun off the biggest wad of papertowels you've ever seen in your life and, taking a deep breath, faced the dead rat.

Carefully looking off to one side, I covered it with the mammoth papertowel wad and lifted it all up.

Ew. EW EW EW!

Its tail stuck out stiffly beyond the papertowels in rigor mortis as I hurriedly carried the corpse towards the garage.

EW EW EW EW!

I was only shaking a little as I raised the trash can lid and dumped the carcass in, towels and all, letting the lid fall back with a crash .

Now, Annie, that wasn't so bad, now was it?

Yes, it was, it was horrible, horrible...

Come now, you know it wasn't, c'mon...

SHUT UP COMMON SENSE, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?

No need to get huffy, fine, then...

Walking back into the house, I put Daws' gloves away where he keeps them, then grabbed several wet-wipes to wipe up any areas I thought the rat had touched, threw those away, then washed my hands with warm water and soap for several hours a few minutes, then walked into my office.

Sitting down at my computer I noticed the grapevine via The Boy had been full at work as there were pop-up messages from various people.

Kela's chat: "I heard from Ryan you had a rat! Oh poor Annie!"
Daws' chat: "What's all this about a rat?"
Laura's chat: "Get over it, I'm extremely pregnant, you don't even know."
Yvette's chat: "zzzzzzZZZZzzz"

After I finished doing a status update on Facebook, everybody knew about my ordeal. Old friends from high school, forgotten friends from my 20's, my extended family, my non-extended family...everybody knew.

But they didn't know the full horror of the experience.

Until now.