In an unprecedented display of obnoxiousness, one of our cats decided to walk around the hallway outside our bedroom doors at 2:30 this morning and howl her dadgum head plum off. It woke me up with an enormous jerk, because HOWL, HOWL, HOOOWWWWLLL. There’s simply nothing like the yowling of a house cat in the middle of the night.
(I’m also here to tell you that Hubs completely slept through the howling. Bless his heart. Had that cat been screaming THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE, Hubs would’ve missed out entirely on an early opportunity to run for his life.)
I suppose better pet owners would have been frightfully concerned about such a new development in their pet’s behavior, as they jumped out of bed and offered to console her with hugs and a dish of warm milk, while they Googled IS MY CAT OKAY? SHE’S HOWLING AT 2:30 AM. SHOULD I WAKE THE VET WITH A PHONE CALL?, but the way I handled this situation was to jump out of bed, march into the hallway like a sniper on a mission, and start swinging my pillow wildly, with no contacts on my eyeballs, until I’d connected with her head, before she woke up the sleeping preschooler.
Waking Thing 2 up in the middle of the night translates into YEAH, I USED TO LIVE AT THAT HOUSE WITH THOSE GOOD PEOPLE, UNTIL I WOKE THE BABY UP, AND NOW I LIVE IN AN ALLEY, EATING FLIES AND SCROUNGING THE DUMPSTERS FOR SUSTENANCE. I FEEL THE SHAME OF MY WAYS, AND I’VE FOUND JESUS NOW.
After I’d completely snuffed out the noise, I went back to bed, where our other cat walked right up my side to sit on my shoulder. I’m fairly certain she whispered, “Thank you. I was about to attack her myself and carve the liver right out of her for all that noise, and you’ve saved me having to spend precious sleep time washing the blood off my paws.”
I threw that cat onto the floor, fluffed my pillows, and tried to go back to sleep. The original cat, done with her howling and in need of Tylenol for the raging headache she’d developed, after my pillow had connected with her head and knocked her neck out of place a bit, then jumped on the bed, thinking she’d just curl up beside me and try to get some sleep. I’m fairly certain she whispered, “I have no idea what came over me. The moon was full, and suddenly I was gripped with this overwhelming urge to sing The Three Little Kittens Had Lost Their Mittens. I apologize.”
I knocked her to the floor, too.
And that, y’all, is how I came to be awake from 2:30 this morning until the ripe hour of 5:30. I can honestly say that at 5:15 I contemplated simply getting back out of bed to make coffee with a can of Red Bull, but apparently I dozed off while I was thinking how this could be the elixir that saved the day.
And then Thing 2 woke up at 6:00 this morning, bless his heart for sleeping in.
That is exactly why I got out of bed at six, looking like I’d been eating flies and hanging into dumpsters myself quite recently. I’m here to tell you that suffering from cat-induced insomnia can really sharpen your math skills, because I laid in bed for a sweet forever, calculating how much sleep I could get, if I fell asleep RIGHT STINKING NOW.
“If it’s 3:50, and I fall asleep now… and if Thing 2 sleeps until 5:50, then I can get X amount of sleep.”
“If it’s 4:02, and I fall asleep now… and if Thing 2 sleeps until 6:14 (Please, Dear Lord in Heaven, let it be!), then I can get X amount of sleep.”
I’m not bragging or anything, but by 5:15 this morning, I was probably able to handle story problems in mathematics as well as Einstein could have done, as I’d solved for X thirty-dozen times by then. I was qualified to teach college trig this morning.
Also? Is this blog a safe place for me to admit hard things? College trig was the class that about did me in. The sines and the cosines and the formulas and the triangles filled my head until it just exploded. I took that class with my close friends, Theresa and Tom. The three of us were a team, because Tom was catching on to trigonometry like it was chocolate chip cookies, and he spent long hours at a table in the student union, showing Theresa and me over and over AND OV-AH where we were going wrong (and there were a whole lot of WHERES there), and somehow, a miracle took place and we passed.
I passed with an A-.
I could not tell you one thing about trig today, however. This is exactly how I feel about it:
In trade for holding our hands and seeing us to the Presidential Honor Roll, through thick and thin and trig, I sat Tom down and showed him where commas and semicolons go in sentences. I taught him about introductory sentences, strong concluding paragraphs, annotated bibliographies, and how you should NEVER start a sentence with the word AND.
And he got it.
And somehow he passed sophomore English in college with high marks.
And then Theresa sat us both down and said, “It’s BIOLOGY. It isn’t rocket science, and yes! You’re going to pass it. This is the prokaryotic flagella, this is the definition of a nuclear envelope, and glycoproteins are nothing to be afraid of.”
The best that Theresa could get me to was a level where I earned a B+ in Biology. I alternated between crying my heart out with happiness because I HAD PASSED! THROW SOME CONFETTI AND TOOT THE PARTY HORNS!!, and being angry that I’d only been two percentage points away from earning an A.
I blame the meiosis and the mitosis for that one, but Theresa and I still celebrated my B+ and her 98% in Biology with a cruise around town in her green Plymouth Horizon, while Roxette, Tone Loc, Bad English and Paula Abdul sang to us from the scratchy tape deck.
And these are the faces of a B+ and a 98-stinking-percent:
And yes. 1989 called and wants the word “total” back.
Also? I have no idea how I am SO CAPABLE of rambling from one topic to another like I do, but today I’m blaming it all on THE CAT WOKE ME UP.
Y’all have a lovely Thursday.