Cats, Heroin, and Bad Ass TVs

As I sit here an reminisce over the last two days, I am more than just a little exhausted, and even more perplexed as to where I should begin. Not that I've done a lot, I just feel like a lot has happened to me. Does that make sense? You ever feel like all you were doing was sitting around and every person that walked by you poked you in the ear with their slimy wet fingers? Yeah, me too.
I Went to the Vet and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt
So demon kitty went to the vet on Wednesday and was neutered and declawed (which I talk a bit about here, please keep up people), and he had to stay overnight so I picked up him Thursday morning. I'm not sure what I was expecting after his little surgeries. Perhaps mangled little paws (which he deserved) with little stitches poking out everywhere like a surgically induced Chia Pet and dried blood. But it wasn't like that at all. I went in, told the lady at the desk that I was in for my cat, and the vet tech came out and started talking to me about the procedure, how it went well, and how he's not feeling any pain due to the patch on his chest that is administering pain medication to him constantly. Alright, sounds good. Then comes the trick question: Do you have any small children at him? Why yes, yes I do. And in my mind I'm thinking, here comes the part where he tells me not to let the small children beat on the cat, swing him around by the tail, sit on him until he meows what sounds like his last meow, you know the normal stuff small children do to a small kitty until he recovers in x amount of days. What the vet tech actually says is Don't let your small children pull the pain killer patch off the cat and put it in their mouths, because if they do, they will receive a lethal dose of heroin. Just like that. The same as a stranger walking down the sidewalk would say, Great day isn't it? As if heroin coated patches of pain killer are a normal part of life, and everyone keeps one in their closet at home. WTF?!?!? HEROIN? Seriously? I guess my stunned silence was mistaken as acceptance in what he said, because then he proceeds to go into how Natra isn't feeling any pain, doesn't realize he's just had surgery, that he's fine, and that I'll need to limit his activities because due to the HEROIN he doesn't realize his limitations, and in fact, he'll be a little goofy for a few days. That's when I break in with, whoa cowboy, go back to the heroin part. Do what now? There's a patch. On my cat's chest. That's administering heroin? Is this some sort of sick kitty drug ring that no one told me about? After I remove his patch, am I going to need to enroll him into a rehab for his withdrawals? I don't know about you, but if I had heroin being constantly fed into my blood stream for five straight days, and then suddenly you take that away from me, there's going to be freaking hell to pay. My cat is psycho already. That's gonna be fun. But no, he reassures me, no withdrawals. So alright, fine. Moving on. How am I supposed to keep a cat who is inherently PSYCHO calm while he's on heroin? I can't even keep him calm when he's in a normal state of mind, much less while he thinks he's floating on clouds of cat nip and cotton balls. Just try he tells me. Alrighty then. This is going to be fun. So I turn around and realize that Mr. Natra is behind me in his carrier on a bench. He hasn't meowed or anything, I didn't even see the woman who brought him out until she left, and didn't realize she had brought him out. I take a peek in on him to see if he's even alive, and I can see his chest moving on the other side of a gauze wrap they have cut to look like a feline wife-beater. Great, he's already dressing like the other crack heads at the methadone clinic. He's laying on his back with his paws up in the air purring. He cocks his head to the side, and I can no longer see the beautiful blue eyes in which came his name, only pupil as he opens one eye at me. I can read his thoughts, and they are simple. Make sure you get a prescription for this shit. Then he closes his eye again and goes back to purring. On a side note, once he's done with his heroin patch, I'll open the bidding at $20.* :)

*in case this blog is being read by any member of the DEA, that was a joke. don't show up at my door or I'll sic my cracked out cat on you*
The Little TV That Could
After the cat debacle, I get home to realize that my TV, my beautiful TV has arrived! I pull it out of it's box, and lovingly lay it in my bed so that I may nap with it. Best 27 inches I've ever had. Anyway, after putting it together and realizing that in no way is it a good idea to leave this beautiful TV on any surface in case the crazy cat or The Smoodge should notice it's glowing glory and insist on either attacking it or touching it. Soooo, I pick up a wall mount for it, pick out the perfect place on my wall, and proceed to act like I have a freaking clue what I'm doing. Oh, I've got all the tools. And then some. I've got my level, I've got my stud finder, I've got my tape measure, I've got my socket set, my power drill, I'm set. What I don't have is an extra set of hands because that freaking mount weighs about the same as a washing machine. So I'm standing in the corner of my apartment, with my mount in one hand, my socket in the other, and the screw in my mouth (uhhh...), trying to figure out how the hell the math on this is going to work. And then I have it! I can balance the arm of the mount on my head while I use one hand to hold the screw in place and the other hand to turn the socket! And you may laugh, but it worked. And here is the result:

Isn't it beautiful? It's the one in the corner, not the one on the entertainment center. Hopefully that monstrosity (the entertainment center) will be gone by the end of this weekend, and I'll be able to complete my diabolical scheme to have a living room where there is nothing on the floor but the sofa. Mwaaah haaa haa ha!
Why I Shouldn't Be Surprised to Get a Visit from CPS
I go to pick up The Smoodge this afternoon, and get accosted as soon as I walk into the toddler room by the teacher. Oh, um, Ms. Bell, I have a couple of accident reports for you to sign. The Smoodge fell down twice, two completely unrelated incidents, but did receive some injuries. And when I glance over at my little cherub, I see this:

The exact middle of her top lip looks like she is a direct descendant of Steven Tyler and Angelina Jolie, and the crease on the left side of her face (her left, your right) looks like she got into a vicious fight with a razor blade and lost. Great. So much for pictures this weekend.
And The Moral of the Story Is
Granted, there were other things that have happened to me in the last few days. Some of which I'm not ready to talk about, others in which I am too tired and feel as though you might need a potty break, so I'll save those for another day.