Rocky got his first kiss yesterday.

He met this little cutie-patootie redhead at his after-school Asperger’s program. He really liked her, but she was “going with” another boy. He was really upset about it (“This is just GREAT; I’m NEVER gonna have a girlfriend!”) but we talked him down from the ledge. Well, The Little Red-headed Girl changed her mind. She likes Rocky now, and he likes her still. It makes sense. They’re both ADHD and AS, so they get each other.

She came over Saturday for a few hours, and then he went over to her house yesterday for a few hours. Her mom brought him back and said, “Ok, I tried not to make a big deal out of this. I ran into the gas station and when I came back out, I saw them smoochin’ in the back seat.”

I was all, awwwwwww, I have to tell his Aunt T (whose response was? “Where’s The Fries?!?! Noooooo!!!”) and we talked a little and they went home. No biggie, right?

Right?

Well, I don’t know. There’s something about this whole thing that’s really weighing heavy on my heart. HunkyDory has had numerous s-e-x talks with Rocky; no problem, if you’re old enough to ask the question, you’re old enough for the answer. We’ve passed our save-it-for-your-wife onto him but also given him a very thorough sex education, so I think we’ve got all our bases covered.

But. There is always a but, and sometimes a butt.

I’m having kind of a hard time with this. As both boys have gotten older and older, I’ve celebrated each milestone as a little more freedom for all of us. Potty-training… chucking those damn car seats… getting their own breakfast… finally being able to go out for a few hours and not have to figure a babysitter into the evening’s budget… all good for them, great for me. The neatest thing is watch these guys go from babies to toddlers into “real people” with their own distinct personalities. This was the first milestone that I’ve hit and thought, ok, whoa… I didn’t see that one coming. Now I’m unsettled and a little scared. This is where the rubber meets the road. I have to step back and hope that he makes his choices according to the way we’ve brought him up.

Maybe I’m having such a hard time because I’m struggling to find a way celebrate this milestone. It’s the first one that I’m not really a part of. My baby boy isn’t one anymore, and I have no way to relate to my man-child’s newfound *gulp* sexuality. Tom will still have some sort of “in” because I’m sure that Rocky will still come to him with big questions. But the fact remains, my confidence in my own role in this new area is sorely shaken. Will he come to me for input? I can just imagine him… “Ewwwwww, MoooOOOooommmmmm!” and I’m guessing that’s a big fat NO.

Tonight, he came over and asked if he could sit with me while we watched 24. I was like, “Um, ok, why?” and he said, “Because I love my mommy” with this really cheesy grin.

I smiled and stretched my arms, and he snuggled with me, his face turned toward Jack Bauer saving the day.

I don’t think he caught me with my stingy eyeballs. If he did, he pretended he didn’t.

God bless the little smoochin’ boogerhead.

As I was sitting on the couch snuggled up with Hunky watching the inauguration, I felt it… A glimmer of hope. I felt hope that I could start to believe my government would do the right thing for its citizens. It seemed inconceivable that in one day’s time, my perception could change so dramatically.

But the inaugural activities aren’t the point of this post. As I watched the news coverage of this historic event that will stand in history, the date flashed across the screen. January 20th. Then it hit me. I will always remember January 20th, 2009 as a day of hope. But to me, this was the second January 20th that was filled with a feeling of hope.

January 20, 1993…

A little back-story… after I came home from the Army in November 1992, there wasn’t enough room in my Mom’s house for me, and my Dad had packed up and moved to Cedar Rapids, Iowa. So I moved in with The Girl Beater and his family. 

I started the day as normal. TGB was getting ready for work, and I was getting him some breakfast. He sat down at the table and started shoveling. In between bites, he said, “What are you going to do today?”

“Look for a better job,” I replied.

He nodded. “Good. You should stop by the Court House and see about getting a marriage license.”

My heart stopped a moment, and I managed to croak, “Why?”

“Well, we should just do it.”

Before I left for Boot Camp at Ft. McClellan, AL, we had discussed that maybe we’d get married in between Boot Camp and my AIT (Advanced Individual Training). What we didn’t see coming is the Army discovering my hearing loss and sending me home one week before Boot Camp graduation, and the marriage discussion had not even come back up in conversation again in the two months since I had returned. 

“We should just DO IT?!” I parroted back, my voice squeaky. This wasn’t exactly the proposal of my dreams.

He stopped eating and looked up at me. “Yeah, sure. If it doesn’t work, we can just get a divorce.”

My heart literally stopped a moment and I struggled to take my next breath.

I didn’t have to worry about formulating a reply, because he wasn’t looking for one. As usual, he made a statement, and I was to submit.

“I’ll see you after work. Make me something good for dinner.”

He left his dishes on the table for me to take care of and hurried out the door.

I turned my head and watched him out the window as he got into his Monte Carlo and sped off. 

I turned my head back and looked down at the old, dark beat-up table. I breathed in, I breathed out. I felt like my life was a movie, and someone had hit the pause button.

I heard his statement inside my head again, echo-y and drawn out, like a 45 record playing at 33 speed. “Yeah, sure. If it doesn’t work, we can just get a divorce.”

What was he thinking?! I couldn’t enter a marriage with that frame of mind! Most of our four and a half year relationship, I had spent grieving for my parent’s divorce. When we met, he was one stable element in my world shaken by the earthquake that was the disillusionment of a marriage. I had told him time and time again, that I would never get divorced; that when I got married, I was determined that it would be forever. 

Again, I heard his statement inside my head. “Yeah, sure. If it doesn’t work, we can just get a divorce.”

In that moment, I felt my whole life shift.

On one side of the moment, I was with him. On the other side of the moment, I left him.  One side; I feared him and the shackles he held me enslaved with. Other side; the chains disintegrated with a small POOF into harmless powder. 

I realized I was going to have to move quickly. I had a lot to do to get out, and I couldn’t risk his father discovering me packing. He’d call TGB for sure.

I wouldn’t be able to stay where he could find me; I didn’t trust either of us. I didn’t trust him to let me go without manipulative speech to wear me down, or physical pain when that didn’t work. I didn’t trust myself to stand up to his physical presence and promises of change that had never been honored in the past.

As quietly and as quickly as I could, I threw everything I owned into black garbage bags. Every time I opened and shut a drawer, it sounded to me like it was amplified through a megaphone, and I nervously listened for the TV volume to go down which would be my warning that his father knew something was up and would think nothing of knocking down the locked bedroom door.

As softly as I could, I opened the rarely used side door, and the old metal creaked a little. I held my stance and my breath simultaneously, and listened.

Nothing.

I put the first bag out, and repeated that shaky maneuver a few more times for the rest of my belongings.

My heart was banging in my chest; I was shaking furiously. 

I went out to the kitchen, held my voice as steady as I possibly could, and called, “Hey, Dad; I’m going to the store for a pop. Want anything?” All the while, praying fervently that he wouldn’t detect a tremor in my voice or God forbid, tell me he was going along.

“No. When will you be back?” I heard his meaning hang in the air. Damn, I had 30 minutes, tops, before he’d call TGB and rat me out.

“I’ll go straight there and straight back. I’m not stopping anywhere else or seeing anyone else.” 

The next few moments felt like an eternity. Finally; “Alright,” he conceded.

I tried not to rush too fast as I left the house. I knew if I was nonchalant enough, and pulled it off right, that it may buy me an extra 15-30 minutes before my absence was reported.

The snow squeaked under my feet and it hurt to breathe, it was so cold; especially since these were frightened, jaggedy breaths. I got in my car and tried to steady my shaking hand as I attempted to meet ignition with key. She started right up. I put her in gear and made sure not to drive too fast out of the driveway. I placed as calm a look on my face as I could muster; I knew it would be observed as I passed the living room window. 

I rounded the corner and passed out of sight of the house. Ok, what’s next, I thought as priorities bounced around in my brain like a dozen racquet balls. There was so much to think about, and the clock was ticking. I had nothing except my wallet and the clothes I was wearing. Who can I get to pick up my stuff, I need gas, where will I go, ohmygod where will I sleep tonight, was Dad suspicious, what the hell am I doing… if he catches me… Gas. To get anywhere I need gas. Shit. I had just gotten paid, but as usual, TGB had taken my signed check and put it in his account but had not yet dispensed my “allowance”. Because I was so stupid with money, you see. 

Once one decision was made, the others fell into restless but somewhat orderly place, like busy kindergardeners in a single-file, indian-style line. 

I drove into town like I had the hounds of hell on my tail. I turned into the driveway of the car dealership where a month before my father had worked, before his entire life changed. I stepped softly into the office and the secretary, Vicki, looked up and smiled at me brightly. “Well, hi there! What a nice surprise!” Her expression changed as the look on my face registered with her.

“I have to leave him. I don’t know where to go. He can’t know where I am, at least for a while. He’ll hurt me. I can’t go to my Mom’s because her house is full, and Dad’s moved, and I’m pretty sure he knows where the domestic violence shelter is.”

“Well, you call your Dad, and we’ll figure it out,” she said as she gave me a reassuring hug. “It’s going to be ok now,” she added.

I dialed my Dad’s new number and hurriedly brought him up to speed. He said, of course, that the safest plan would be for me to drive to Iowa and then decide the next step once I arrived. “One step at a time,” he said. “Ok, put Vicki back on for just a minute, and then as quickly as you can, safely, I want you to go straight to the gas station and then get on the interstate, ok?” 

“Ok, Daddy.” I paused. In a very small voice, I said, “I’m scared.”

His voice took the tone he used to calm me down after I had woken up from a bad dream. “It’s going to be ok now. You just get here.”

“Ok, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too; put Vicki on, ok?”

I handed the phone to Vicki, and less than five minutes later, I had $50 for gas and lunch, and directions written out to get me to my Dad’s. A quick hug from Vicki, and I was out the door.

I got in my car and looked at the clock. Forty-five minutes had passed already. I started shaking again. I was in the danger zone. I decided that I would go straight to the interstate and go as far as I could and then get gas. 

As I went through town, I looked left and right at my surroundings. All the familiar old buildings that made up my town. The Hallmark store, where I had gotten keepsake ornaments. JcPenney, where I had gotten my graduation dress. The silk-screen place where I got band t-shirts, my letter jacket, and senior t-shirts. The jewelry store where I had gotten my class ring. The pharmacy where I had worked for a couple years. It felt surreal. But I knew that that moment, right then, would be a defining moment of my life. 

I reached the interstate and got on I-69 South. I put the cruise on 70, and for the first time since I had sat at the breakfast table, I took a long, deep breath in. And exhaled. Now I had time to think.

I had done it. I was fairly confident that Dad hadn’t called TGB yet. He would, soon. But by the time he called him, and he left work, and started looking for me, I’d be gone. The only people on earth that knew where I was, was my father and Vicki. And they weren’t sayin’ nothin’. 

Then I felt it. 

Hope.

Hope that he would no longer hurt me; physically, sexually, verbally, or emotionally. 

Hope that I could learn to live without him. 

Hope that he had not “institutionalized” me, and that I’d be able to live my own life without someone telling me what I could wear and where I could go and who I could see and what I could buy andwhenandhowandwhy. 

For the first time in almost five years, hope washed down over me like a hard spring rain, and it was unbelievably overwhelming. The tires hummed on the road and the hope-rain cleansed my soul. And as the mile markers flew by, I sobbed. 

The world around me was different. It was like, for five years someone had been slowly turning down the saturation dial of my life; and in three seconds, cranked it all the way up past normal. It was… staggering. Everything around me and inside me was bigger, deeper, heavier, just more.  The snow was whiter. The sky was bluer. My tears were wetter.

A semi-truck passed me; slowly, but he passed me. As he drove ahead, through my tears, I saw on the back side of his trailer cab, CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA. He was going where I was going! Up to that point, I thought of the town as kind of a Never Never Land. But this CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA did exist, and I would follow him there. 

I cried for miles and miles. Emotions that I thought were dead inside of me surfaced, and it was like I had been underwater for too long and had just broken through to the air and I gasped and gulped, drawing it deep within my core. Those emotions were so overpoweringly real, they actually, physically hurt inside my chest, and all I could do was sob and feel.

Righteous indignation.

Relief.

Happiness. 

But most of all… hope.

Hope.

Mah balance. I haz lossed it.

I blame NahNoMoFoMe.

It is just so hard to write every single day. I worry that I’m going to lull you into a state of unconsciousness. I worry that I’m going to lull MYSELF into a state of unconsciousness. And the more inept I feel, the less I want to write.

Between writing posts, reading blogs, commenting, fussing with my blog design, and twittering, I’m spending way too much time in front of the computer. I haven’t cheated and backdated any posts. But is it worth my brain disintegrating in a fiery hell of SUCK?

My Google Reader is so voracious, I can barely keep up with it. I haven’t cheated and ‘Marked as Read’ a single post without a least giving it a good skim, and at most reading then clicking over to comment. But is it really worth it reading until my eyeballs fall out and roll around on the floor picking up dust bunnies and/or my family has put my face on the back of milk cartons?

I’ve worked on my blog design for at least a few hours this month. At first I was just kind of sprucing up the place. Well, then it did actually crash once, and I never did figure out why. I had to deactivate every plugin and reactivate a few at a time, and then rebuild everything including the Tabbed Widgets as I lost all my text widgets in the crash. I like it better now than before the crash, but was it worth 47 days of my eyes being stabbed by those little drink swords crossed by code?

My house projectile vomited all over itself. Some of the laundry came up the stairs and tapped me on the shoulder and politely inquired as to when it might expect for an estimated time of washing. Coincidentally, Hunky walked up to me and announced that if a load wasn’t done tonight, he was going commando tomorrow. (Hint: He’s not currently enlisted in any of the Armed Services.) Then I opened the fridge, and either the boys have been doing more fancy science experiments than I ever conducted, or I believe it’s time to throw out some leftovers. My kitchen floor is so filthy, I can’t come up with hyperbole outrageous enough to do it justice. I’ve been slacking around here and it’s really not fair to Hunky.

I haven’t been giving my job hunt the priority it deserves. I’ve been applying for jobs, but not near enough. I’ve been temping, but it’s never a full week, and never more than I would get for an unemployment check. So by the time they take my earned wages off of my unemployment check, I’m making the exact same amount as I would have sitting my ass at home on the couch watching movies and collecting full unemployment. But my unemployment benefits are about to run out, and at this point, I have to start applying for shit I really don’t want to do to pay the bills.

I haven’t completed a single book in the month of November, and that is SO not like me. That’s like Martha saying, “I haven’t carved a single gourd into lovely… ” Turkey booties? I don’t know, honestly; I don’t watch her show.

I have at least three picture collage frames that I’ve bought but I haven’t ordered the prints to go in them. I rilly, rilly want to finish cleaning my basement so I can set up a place down there to have all my craft crap in one place, and a small rec area with TV, DVD, VCR, and PS2. I want to go out into the neighborhood and take more pictures. I want to kick Manual Mode’s superior, snarky, smarmy ass. I want to set up an Etsy shop for my photography. I haven’t done any sewing (unless you count me sewing that patch onto Kizzle’s hockey jersey) and I miss it. I want to cut out more squares for the boys’ t-shirt quilts, because they’ve actually been asking for them. Every time they outgrow a t-shirt they’re particularly fond of, they ask, “But I’ll see it again in my t-shirt quilt, right?” Well, yes, but at this rate, it may be your high school graduation gift, if we’re lucky, son.

I just want a magic pill that gives me an extra 12 hours in a day.

I saw a commercial for something like that, where this chick was just, like, on her hands and knees scrubbing her kitchen floor, obsessively lining up the throw rug fringe, and cleaning the bathroom tile with a toothbrush… What was the name of that stuff?

I wish I could remember…

Oh, yeah!

METH.

So, yes, I know they already make them and they’re called Methamphetamines, but I’ll pass, thanks.

No, just a little pill that will grant me a spare half day, with no nasty side effects such as my teeth falling out of my head, over-obsession almost to the point of insanity, [;/'''reeeeeeeee Emma just walked across my keyboard and she wanted to share that] insomnia on steroids+HGH and vitamin supplements; oh, and an addiction more powerful than heroin. OOOooo, can you make them with no side effects and make ‘em taste like Mike & Ike’s? That’d be groovy, dude.

I just need to make the scale swing the other way. I need to spend less time in front of the Mac, and more time investing in my family. I want to complete the NahNoMoFoMe thing, then take a couple steps back and reassess to admit I’m not make sure I’m spending my time as wisely as I can. I know I can do better than I’ve been doing.

But we have a more dire issue presently.

Mah funneh. I haz brokeded it.

I’ve been looking over the last few months and for the most part, I’ve felt disappointed with the quality of the word dance I’ve pushed out onto my little stage here. I’ve wondered and pondered and obsessed and worried that I’d lost it. My voice.

I almost allowed myself to forget why I’m doing this.

I was reading writers way out of my league and starting to think that as good as they are, made me worse.

I was frustrated with throwing myself into trying to find my connections with the blogoshere and starting to think that as popular as they are, made me less lovable.

I was watching my feedcount a little too closely, and trying to figure what I might have written that would explain a drop from 25 to 9 in one day, and was starting to think that as fickle as they are, made me less interesting.

I was reading pro blogger tips and was starting to think that as successful as they are, made me more of a failure.

I caught myself starting to whine, “Why don’t I have H8Rs and Trolls and obnoxious Anonymousi spitting their venom all over my comments?”

Then I pulled my head out of my ass.

This is MY casa.

I reminded myself that the writer I needed to be comparing myself to, and constantly challenging, was myself. I need to push my own limits, and refine my own voice. I haven’t lost my voice; I’ve just suffered a little laryngitis.

I’ve got to write for first of all, myself; to dare myself to push my talent harder and longer and stronger. (That made me feel a little bit dirty just then, how about you?)

And second of all, all of you, my Innernetz Budz; to make you laugh a little bigger, forcefully spew a little more raspberry mocha cappuccino in your keyboard, think a little longer, feel a little more connected, and care a little more.

And if the big girl (and boy) bloggers never notice me, that’s got to be ok.

As small a world as it is, Dooce will never be my non-practicing lesbian lovah complete with matching decoder rings. Someone told me she was just a mythical hobbit, and I know she’s not, but she might as well be Angelina Jolie for all it will change my life. Ree will never invite me out to her ranch to work cattle with MM and the punks and give me one-on-one photography lessons.

I will try to write as strikingly as Black Hockey Jesus and as unabashedly as Avitable and as bitingly witty as The Bloggess; but if I never do, that’s got to be ok.

And damn the page views and subscriber count. I’m thankful for how much I’ve honed my writing talent to this point, and will continue to spin the mental Thesaurus and dig a little deeper. I’m grateful for each and every comment you guys grace me with, and will continue to enjoy connecting with you.

I hope I’m not blowing smoke up my own ass.

I hope you all notice the difference.

But if you don’t, as long as I’m doing my best, that’s got to be ok.

Today I had to drag my sick, achy ass down to my Iowa Workforce Development office (i.e. unemployment office) to sign a paper about getting my hearing aids. Neither rain nor sleet nor creeping crud was going to keep me from completing this task. But it was hardly the in-and-out-done errand that I anticipated.

I was asked to take a seat at a table a little uncomfortably close to a job counselor and another female client. I can’t eavesdrop on someone’s conversation. I couldn’t hear any of their conversation except one part when she said (had to be loudly because hello, I heard it!) “I can’t leave without my dog!” and sobbed. For a moment, I was sucked back in time.

One reason a woman may refuse to leave an abusive relationship that you may not have thought of before is because they can’t take their pet or don’t have anyone who can take it/them. Do you think if someone is abusing you, that they would hesitate to abuse something/someone near and dear to you, such as your dog or cat? Fluffy or Fido; that’s the first thing on the mind of an abused woman and the last thing on the mind of everyone else. If I leave, what will happen to them?

As this woman cried quietly, I closed my eyes for just a moment and I was back there. Packing quickly, my heart thumping wildly in fear. Since I didn’t even have time to get boxes, I was just throwing things into black garbage bags; breathing so ragged, I was working through a stitchy cramp in my side. I threw all those bags out the back door onto the snow-dusted porch for my step-dad to pick up shortly; I would already be on my way out of town. Before I left, I thought, what will I do with the puppy? I paused a moment and thought, his family won’t let him hurt the puppy, no matter how enraged he was going to be when he found I was not home. We lived with his mom and dad and two brothers, and I felt that they would take care of him until I could send friends for him in a few days.

The wave of crisis rose and fell that weekend. I left. Police were called, tearful conversations were had, promises that had rang empty in the past waived their tattered banners for the final time. This time I had made sure that I didn’t meet him alone while I knew I still couldn’t trust my own judgement. Yet I felt free for the first time in almost five years.

The people who I was staying with had agreed to let me have my puppy with me at their house, and my best friend and his father went out to The Girl Beater’s house to get him. I waited for them to return, still reveling in the rather exhilarating feelings, almost manic, that I hadn’t had in years. As I emptied black bags and put things away, I had a small nagging doubt niggling in the back of my mind, but I batted it away, determined to enjoy my new found lightness of being. I heard the truck rumble up the driveway and I hurried out, anxious to see my pup after five days away from him.

But something was wrong.

My best friend and his dad walked up to the front porch where I had burst out of the door, cold air zinging my lungs.

As they raised their faces yet said nothing, I knew.

It was too late. He was gone.

I shook my head, hard, angry at the tears that were squeezing from my eyes. My best friend’s dad hugged me close and let me cry. “We buried him properly. We’ll take you to say goodbye.” he almost whispered, as my best friend wiped tears from both sides of the top of his nose, guy-style. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said.

They told me later that The Girl Beater, his mother, his father, and two adult brothers had simply put the puppy in the basement and ceased to provide water and food. You see, those were the “consequences” of my leaving without making arrangements for his care and feeding. Five adults listened to a puppy cry until he couldn’t anymore.

I opened my eyes, the moment over; and was almost surprised at my surroundings, the flashback was so vivid. The woman was still crying quietly. The counselor sat across from her, cool and detached. My guy popped around the corner and said, “Hey, Dory, you ready?”

I got up and on the way back down the hallway, I shook, just a couple jerks, as if I could shake off those old recollections.

My cat is so stoo-pid.

[Audience choruses] How. Stoo-pid. Is. He.

He so stoo-pid, he chewed the cord on the LitterMaid, gave himself a pretty good jolt, and is now afraid of his own litterbox. In his feeble mind, The Potty Bit-ted Me On My Mouf.

A couple weeks ago, the LitterMaid stopped working with the pooper-scooper arm extended all the way across to the pooper keeper. I played with the cord a little bit, and discovered that it had been chewed and now had a short in it. If I fiddled with it, it would make a little connection and move about an inch and stop. It was now officially junk.

Meanwhile, one of the cats peed smack in the middle of our bed. We figured it was Elmer and that he was pissed-off [everybody groans] about something, maybe because I wasn’t scooping as often as the box used to (c’mon, I don’t care who you are, you can’t scoop every time 10 minutes after the cat leaves the box). We had to strip the bed and clean it which is a great big, pain-in-the-ass job and about as popular around here as a root canal and forgoing anesthesia for hypnosis.

I scooped old-skool fashion for a couple days and Elmer peed on the bed again. I sent Hunky to the store for a new LitterMaid and a Bissell Little Green Machine. He cleaned the bed and the BLGM worked much better than rags and a ShopVac. I dismantled LitterMaid I (AKA LandfillMatter), set up LitterMaid II, and I declared “all good in da ‘hood”. But I kept checking the new box periodically and it seemed like the cats weren’t generating as much stinky stuff as usual. A week went by and the pooper keeper hadn’t even filled up yet. Elmer peed on our bed a couple more times, necessitating stripping and cleaning AGAIN. Well, you know I was about ready to send Mr. Elmer to Kitty Orphanage, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s for my house to stink like cat pee.

The proverbial last straw came when Hunky was having a lovely nap on the couch. Elmer had been enjoying his favorite activity, which is laying on the top of the couch, keeping watch over his front yard; the people walking by, and the birds and squirrels brave enough to venture into his territory. I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he rose and jumped down to Hunky’s lap.

As I watched first in confusion then in abject horror, manymanymany things happened at approximately the speed of technology.

Hunky’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and his eyes got rilly, rilly big.

He jumped up off the couch holding Elmer by the scruff of the neck, an arc of pee still streaming from Elmer.

He was yelling like a Tazmanian Devil. I couldn’t tell a single word he was saying.

I jumped up and yelled, “What do you want me to do?!” mostly because I had to yell over him to make myself heard.

He continued his Tazmanian Devil impression on the way to the basement door where he tossed the cat (he didn’t hurt him; don’t sic the ASPCA on us) down the stairs.

Doors slammed.

Cat mmmrrrOOOOWWWWed.

Much yelling and groaning and gnashing of teeth.

It wasn’t pretty. At all. By any stretch of the imagination.

Something had to be done.

In a last ditch effort, I bought a cheap, simple litterbox in a different color than the Scary Potty. I filled it up for him and showed him where it was, and right away he got in and hunkered down. Well, now I’m all, mentally high fiving myself and doing a little victory dance in my head, chalking up Dory 1, Elmer 0. But he sat there for over a minute, and I’m thinking, day-um, that’s a lot of peeing. But then he got up and walked away and there’s two tiny little drops for all of his effort. Now I’m thinking, ok, now he’s stoo-pid and broken.

Hunky took him to the vet. When I picked him up, the vet explained that he had a nasty bladder infection. Every time he tried to pee for about the week prior, it must’ve burned horribly. She gave me antibiotics and some special food that cost more per pound than a nice New York Strip steak. I ordered this cranberry medicine from 1-800-Pet-Meds to go in his steak/food. So now Elmer is on the mend, I guess. He’s still not peeing much yet, but his course of antibiotics isn’t finished.

So here’s my theory: when his Potty Bit-ted Him In His Mouf, he started holding his pee to avoid it, and consequently developed a bladder infection.

He’s still terrified of the litterbox, of course. We’ve tried a cardboard box filled with shredded paper shavings. We’ve tried holding him close to the new cheap litterbox and offering treats or scratching his neck just like he likes. But he still won’t use it.

Because his feeble mind, My Potty Bit-ted Me In My Mouf AND Has A Scary Mean Monster Hiding In It That Bit-ted Me In My Junk.

Too bad there’s no medicine for stoo-pid.

Where’s the research grants for that? Surely it’s as big a problem as erectile dysfunction.

I bet we all could think of a lot of folks that would benefit greatly from some IStoopidium DA.