Question: What’s the worst part about leaving this?
Is it the three suitcases full of smelly, sandy beach clothes that need to be washed before something lays eggs in them?
Is it the discovery that the 15 bottles of coconut shampoo you pilfered from the hotel somehow exploded in transit and now all of your bras smell like day old Pina Colada?
Maybe it’s the three pounds of volcanic rock that fell out of your sons’ pockets and almost voided the warranty on your new washing machine?
Or is the worst part about coming home a refrigerator that contains nothing except a big bag of Flax and a tub of Greek yogurt?
And the fact that, due to the limited amount of food, the boys had to buy lunch at school today, leading to the following 7 a.m. conversation:
BUT I DON’T WANT TO BUY LUNCH AT SCHOOL TODAY! IT’S MEXICAN DELIGHT DAY!
Oh, stop it. You like Mexican food.
BUT THE MEXICAN FOOD AT THE CAFETERIA TASTES LIKE WORM FARTS!
How do you know? Have you ever tasted worm farts?
YES! AND THEY TASTE EXACTLY LIKE THE ENCHILADAS IN THE CAFETERIA! ONLY WITHOUT THE CHEESE! I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY WHEN I END UP IN THE NURSE’S OFFICE WITH A TUMMY ACHE FROM EATING MEXICAN WORM FARTS! I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY, LADY!
No, although any and all of these things would be a good enough reason to just sit in the closet and sob while rubbing macadamia nuts all over myself and humming “Tiny Bubbles” until I pass out, the worst part about coming home from vacation is this:
The jackass cat.
Oh, sure, Miss Dickens may look cute and innocent and sweet and all, but it would seem that she’s just a tad upset about being left alone with a cat sitter for a week. I know this because ever since we walked into the house, she’s made this noise:
She made it at 10 p.m., she made it at 11 p.m., and she made it at 3 a.m. right into my ear causing me to almost have a heart attack because I thought our house had been hit by a SCUD missile.
To help her feel better, I’ve given her extra food, extra water, and lots and lots of petting. I have even offered to let her sleep on my neck like an incontinent mink stole, but she still won’t calm down. Basically, like every time we return from a trip, she’ll be a pissed off 17 1/2 year old cat for about a week. And she’ll tell us all about it. All. Frickin. Day. Long.
She’s so upset that she didn’t even cheer up when I let her watch The Real Housewives of New York with me, and she usually loves that show because of all the nasty cat fights in it. (Do I need a rimshot for that one? I think I might.)
Anyway, since Miss Dickens is basically the feline version of a keening Italian widow, today I’m going to rename her “Miss Kitty Corleone” and make her wear a little, black shawl around the house while she’s yowling her head off. I think she’ll like that.
Or maybe I’ll just lock her in the playroom and take a really long nap with my bras.