It occurs to me that even though I don’t know much about football, my cats have been studying up.

In particular, both have become exceptionally good defensive tackles when I try to play Facebook Bejeweled.

Defensive tackles play at the center of the defensive line. Their function is to rush the passer and stop running plays directly in the middle of the line of scrimmage.

The line of scrimmage is the six inches between me and my laptop.

To wit:

This method of blocking is very effective, since this large, hairy tackle does not move once the play begins.

She sits there like a rock while the quarterback tries unsuccessfully to click around her body. The QB’s attempts to match falling gems fail miserably until or unless she actually lifts the tackle off the table and places her on the floor.

Now.

The other defensive tackle in this household uses a different strategy, known simply as the tail wag.

This technique sends tail and fur directly into the nose, and sometimes mouth, of the quarterback. The Play of Unmerciful Tickling causes the quarterback to either sneeze or spend the next five minutes in a futile attempt to remove that one hair that’s been bothering her.

It is not necessary for this tackle’s butt to block the entire line of scrimmage, as the tail’s whipping action is plenty effective.

In addition, both tackles have learned the art of the head butt and purring while play is underway. The quarterback has no choice but to abort the game due to obsessive cuteness.

So tell me, how many four-legged defensive tackles do you have? Got any good strategies that work for you?

Or do you just punt?

I’m so awesome, I can’t stand it.

Today I saw a home improvement show where the home owner changed a white dishwasher into a black one (without paint) to match the rest of the appliances in her kitchen. I never knew that was possible.

I set out to do the same, since we have a black stove, microwave, refrigerator, coffee maker and toaster.

Here’s the before:

Here’s how I did it:

Note: You may want to disconnect power first. I did not, but I was also careful not to touch any wires (You won’t have to for the procedure.)

1. Remove any screws that secure the access panel below the dishwasher door.

2. Release the access panel and remove the retainer strip (if you have one) that holds the door panel on.

3. Slip out the flexible white panel and peek behind it to see if the reverse side is black.

4. Mine was (!!!), so I pulled out the panel (it’ll bow), flip it over and slide it up back in place. Smooth out any puckers.

5. Slide the retainer strip back on to secure the panel.

6. Put the screws back in the access panel. This was the only hiccup I had. One of the screw holes was located in a tight space above and behind the access panel.

We don’t have one of those magnetic screwdrivers that holds screws in place until you get it in the hole.

What did I use to hold the screw on the end of the screwdriver?

Chewed gum.

Again. Awesome. Me.

Now not only does our dishwasher match our appliances, but our cat Shadow thinks the “new” dishwasher goes so much better with her fur.

Wouldn’t you agree?

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, but I’ll play one on the blog today.

If you have sinus problems and prefer a non-pharmaceutical treatment, go get yourself a neti pot.

A neti pot is a container that looks like a cross between a small tea pot and Aladdin’s lamp. It’s used to irrigate your nasal passageway and relieve sinus congestion or allergy symptoms.

It’s also used to make you look more ridiculous than you ever thought possible.

You fill it with warm water, add non-iodized salt and then place the spout into one nostril, tilt your head and run the water out the other.

Ridiculous!

If you do it right, it’s not uncomfortable, just oddly, weirdly, bizarrely strange. If you do it wrong, you’ll feel like you’re drowning. I strongly suggest you do it right.

Why the neti pot?

I have not been able to breathe clearly from my right nostril for years. What’s worse is that I also suffer intense pain in my ears when I lie down, more so on my right side. I’ve discussed the ear thing with three different doctors and they are intrigued, yet stumped as to the cause.

While researching the ear pain issue on my own, I came across a forum where someone suggested a neti pot as a possible solution. Because I take advice from total strangers on the Internet, I thought perhaps if I relieved the congestion in my right nostril, it might also alleviate some pain in my ear(s), assuming the two issues are related. Isn’t that a good doctory assumption? I should know. Because I’m a doctor.

I prepared the pot and got right to it. I. Was. FEARLESS! I was also alone and not in front of a mirror. No one, including me, needed to see a drainage of the Kathy Canal.

The clearing effect to my nostrils was immediate and lasted a good while. I breathed equally well out of each side for the first time in probably a decade.

What remains to be seen is whether regularly-administered neti pot action will do anything for my ears.

More about that ear pain

Whenever I lie down, pressure builds up and it feels like someone jammed a knife directly into my ear and left it there. The pain varies. It can be sharp, burning hot, dull or throbbing. I’ve described the pain to my doctors as simply “My head’s on fire.”

Fun. 

I’ve also said that if I had this kind of pain while awake and walkin’ around, I would be on disability. It would easily incapacitate me if I felt that measure of pain 24/7.

The reason I can tolerate it is because I’m mostly sleeping through the pain. It often wakes me up, but then I flip over to the other side to relieve pressure and pain in the ear. When the other ear hurts and wakes me, I flip back. I do that probably a dozen times a night.

Again, fun.

If the neti pot doesn’t help with my ears, at least I’m seeing results with my plugged-up nose. So it’s at least a partial win.

Oh, and some of you remember I said on Facebook that I might videotape myself using the neti pot.

For. Get. It.

Imagine filming yourself doing this and you will understand why I changed my mind.

Robot Lady Using a Neti Pot

So have you ever used a neti pot? Are you like some friends of mine who bought one, but are too afraid to try it? If you love your neti pot, share your success story!

UPDATE: I just discovered that I can’t use my neti pot over the kitchen sink, where I find it more convenient.

My cat Shadow thinks my nose is a faucet. Because she loves to drink water right from the tap, she tried doing the same out of my nose.

I know. Gross. And annoying. Thanks, Shadow. ‘ppreciate it.

So how much weight have you gained since blogging?

Me? A whopping 30 pounds and I’m tired of walking around with all that extra tonnage. So what am I doing to lose?

• Walking two miles most weekdays and eight on weekends.
• Eating a healthy breakfast and lunch, with fruit for snacks.
• Having a very light dinner.
• Eliminating the Frisbee-sized iced cinnamon bun I used to have twice a week. OK, make that three times.

I’ve had good success during the first month. And rather than mark my weight loss milestones by a straight number of pounds, I’ve decided to mark them by the number of Stinkys I’ve lost. Stinky, my beautiful, sweet kitty, weighs 5.2 pounds.

My progress so far:

And to the guy who asked me last week if I was losing weight, you have no idea how close I got to jumping in your lap and giving you a big sloppy kiss. Thank you!

This is my dearly departed cat, Calvin. RIP, buddy.

Calvin was really a dog in cat’s clothing. He would rather be outside, terrorizing birds, squirrels and anything else that dared come into the yard, than sit on my lap getting nice chin skritches. My husband Dave would put him on a leash and take him for walks like you would a dog. He practically barked.

Calvin would also rather take off a few fingers than allow you to pet him on the head like you can do easily with most cats. I don’t know how or why he got so angry, but towards the end of his life, I stopped trying to touch him.

He was the Hannibal Lector of the cat world. In fact, whenever he went to the vet, they had to muzzle him. That requirement came after the time he bit straight through the rubber glove of a vet’s assistant and made the guy bleed. A big, red warning note was stamped on the top of his medical chart.

We were told the next step would be to medicate him before he was allowed back for any kind of visit. It was that or he would be blacklisted.

By then, I’d been fed up with many of his behaviors, not the least of which was him peeing on the carpets in almost every room of our house. I spent many a Saturday shampooing and disinfecting the rugs.

Were we lousy cat parents? No. Calvin was just one bad ass cat who showed his general displeasure by spraying everywhere.

But it’s not like we didn’t try to make him a happy, normal cat. We did.

How?

We took him to a cat therapist.

That’s right.

We plunked down $75/hour to have a cat shrink tell us what we could do to make Calvin the sweet ‘ol cat he was supposed to be.

We knew how insane the idea was, but we did it anyway out of desperation.

Of course, we laughed to ourselves the entire time we sat in the therapist’s office, realizing how ludicrous it was to spend that kind of money trying to straighten out the plum-sized brain of an animal who couldn’t understand English, much less what brought him to see a doctor who studied at a real school and knew the difference between all the classifications in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

So, yeah. The visit.

We brought him into the office in his carrier and the nice doctor talked to us about Calvin’s bad behaviors for a while. Then she said she would try to coax him out of his carrier and “get him comfortable.”

She opened the carrier door, stuck her hand inside the hole and he bit her. Duh.

That ended the hands-on portion of the program.

She talked more about what we could do to enhance his calm and then the kitty equivalent of Prozac came up. Prozac. For cats. Um. No.

Since I was mostly concerned with his spraying the inside of my house instead of using his litter box, she said “Oh, that’s an easy fix. Put out more boxes. One in every room.”

Now you’re talkin’, sister!

I wouldn’t have thought it would work, but she was absolutely right. Multiple boxes all but put an end to Calvin’s spraying and I could reclaim my weekends as my own again. No more rug shampooing.

Was the kitty shrink a success? Not really. Calvin remained an ornery bastard until the day he died. I’d venture to say he might have been happier that way. Cranky was his thing.

If you ever took your pet to a shrink, I would love to hear how your experience went.

No? Then at least you’ll have a story to tell your friends. You now know someone who actually did and admitted it.

Yesterday my husband and I attended a birthday party for my brother-in-law. I was disappointed to find out from other guests that I missed the part of the show where my husband tried to walk through a patio door without first making sure it was, like, open. Smooth move, Dave.

Though he’s not so great with walking through glass, he does have a knack for screen doors.

The year: 1992

The place: Our townhouse

The event: Escaped cat

One morning before work, I had enough time to let one of our cats out into the backyard, which overlooked a wooded area and a small creek. I put Calvin in his harness and tied the leash to a fence.

From the breakfast nook I could keep an eye on him, but when I had my back turned for a split second, he managed to wriggle his way out of the harness and escape to God knows where.

Not prone to too much panic, as this had happened before, I grabbed a can of cat food and went outside to open it up in the hopes that Calvin would hear a familiar yummy sound and come running back from wherever he ventured off.

He didn’t.

I began calling his name, pleading more desperately with each shout.

Still nothing.

I ran inside for a jingle bell toy he liked and returned outside to ring it in an annoyed, I-mean-business kind of way.

Time ticked with no response.

Looking over the bank, down to the creek, I saw something orange and white moving about the brush. It’s him! Good that I found him, bad to see how inaccessible he was. The hill dropped at a 45 degree angle.

Now I panicked.

So what’s a girl to do? I ran back to the house and yelled through the screen door “Dave!!! Calvin’s in the woods!!! I can’t get him!!!”

A formerly-sleeping Dave bolted out of bed, stumbled downstairs and shot through the door to begin search and rescue.

And by “through the door,” I mean through the door.

Like a gorilla in the mist, my beast of a husband took out the entire screen door, right off the tracks.

Huh. That’s sort of unfortunate.

Without skipping a beat, he handed me the door, said simply “Here. Hold this,” and went off to retrieve Calvin.

And so there I stood, regretting having turned a peaceful morning into a three-ring circus, holding an ineffective jingle bell toy and a giant, slightly-bent patio door that would never again close properly.

Awesome.

Last week my husband Dave and I received the outdoor pet tent I ordered from Amazon. We wanted one because our cat Lucky is always jonesing to go outside, but he can’t be trusted to stay put, nor did we want to struggle putting a harness on him.

The Outdoor Feline Funhouse is perfect and I highly recommend!

Lucky enjoys feeling a breeze, sniffing the fresh air, watching birds and rabbits in the yard and rolling around inside of it.

I even trained him to go right into it when I open the patio door. I just tell him “Come on” and he slips right in. There are two panels, one on the long end, one on the short, secured with easy to open and close zippers.

Lucky is clawed, but he doesn’t bother scratching at the mesh, so we don’t have any problems there.

When he’s done enjoying the outside, he meows to go inside to take his eleventh nap of the day.

The tent is great, except for one thing.

It’s lightweight.

Really lightweight.

Dave and I left the house to run errands yesterday, pulled out of the garage and started down the street.

Before I noticed, Dave said “I wonder who that belongs to.”

“Who what belongs to?”

“That.”

Four houses down, smack dab in the middle of the street, sat our new mesh tent. (Of course I took a picture, you silly goose. I’m a professional.)

The tent got up off the patio, hung a right, tumbled past the neighbor’s house, across the front lawn and then down the street.

Luckily it folds up quickly and I could stash it in the trunk of the car. We hightailed it outta there like we just robbed a bank. I felt oddly embarrassed that our tent ran away. Was anyone watching?

Anyway, we know now we have to fill bags with sand to anchor the tent. The bags the tent came with. The bags that the directions say you should use because the tent is lightweight. The directions I never read unless you have a gun to my head.

This month marks my 25th anniversary working at a local university.

Before y’all gasp and pity me for working at one place so long, I haven’t worked in the same job all that time. I’ve held several different positions in two vastly different departments, so it hasn’t been boring and I haven’t gotten stale.

Last week I was notified by the HR department that, as a gift for my years of service, I may choose between two kinds of $425 hand-crafted solid maple chairs.

Not a bad deal. They are very nice chairs, except I know deep down I will never sit in them because I’m not 93 years old.

Obviously, I would have to make a decision based on the seating preferences of someone else in my house:

Meet Shadow.

Her first favorite spot to sit is in the kitchen sink.

Her second favorite spot to sit is on a junky chair we keep in the dining room.

Shadow, my dear, you just got an upgrade.

I decided to go with the second chair since the rocker will probably slide on the floor every time she jumps on it and bang against the wall as a result of her girth.

The stationary chair will serve her well.

Of course, something tells me she’d be happier sleeping in a $2 hand-crafted cardboard box.

Too bad. She’ll just have to suffer in luxury.

Do you remember the other day when I found out I’m that crazy lady who talks to herself and that I’m thisclose to being a crazy cat lady, too?

Well, we’re there.

I took my cat Lucky to the vet yesterday for dental work.

When I arrived at the office, I checked him in, along with three other people who brought pets in for some kind of surgery.

After I finished filling out paperwork, I delivered my cat to the receptionist who said “We’ll take him from here.”

Being the worrying type, I suddenly got a thought in my head that maybe with all the other cats there for surgery, the vet might mistake my cat for another and do the wrong procedure on him.

And then I didn’t want to give up my cat.

What if they do a microchip implantation? I didn’t ask for that!

What if they declaw him? No, no, no!

What if they try to remove a gall stone? He doesn’t have any!

And what if they think he’s in for what the poodle came for? I’m pretty sure Fluffy McFluffster was in for a botox treatment.

So I asked the assistant “How will you know what he’s here for? How will I know you’re working on the right cat?”

She assured me that he’d get an ID wrist band just like people get in a hospital and walked further back to the prep room.

I said “So you’ll put it on him?”

“Yes.” She kept walking.

“Like, you’ll put it on him right now?”

Her walking, walking, me following, following.

“Yes.”

Hey! Did she just roll her eyes at me?

“You will? Promise?”

[blink blink]

“Mrs. Frederick, I can guarantee you Lucky will get the right treatment.”

And then I left, happy in the knowledge that Lucky would have his teeth cleaned and cared for and I wouldn’t be picking up a clawless, plump-lipped cat with an incision for a gall stone that never existed.

He did come home with one less tooth, though. Sorry, dude. I could save you from the wrong surgery, but I couldn’t save you from this.

We have a winner! Surfie guessed correctly that yesterday’s What’s That object was a bunion stretcher, used to stretch points in a shoe to allow more room for bunions if you’re so afflicted.

Surfie gets a Junk Drawer magnet and a mystery prize involving eyeballs. Surfie, if the package is leaking when you get it, don’t open it. Just kidding. Maybe.

In other news….

I’ve been enjoying a leisurely vacation from work this week. Leisurely up until the point when I had to take my cat to the vet. He’s been sneezing for two days.

Ever try to load an angry cat into a carrier? Yeah. I was all prettied up and ready to leave the house when the time came to introduce Lucky to his mode of transportation.

I quickly found myself in a fit of aerobic activity over what should have been a cinch. He always went into the carrier easily before. Today he challenged me to a duel.

I tried head first, then butt first, then any way I could first.  The boy was having none of it. Ultimately, I had to unscrew eight connectors on the carrier lid, which is tedious, and place him inside that way.

I later learned it’s best to go butt first, holding the cat by the scruff of the neck with one hand, then holding said butt while securing the hind legs between the fingers of your other hand. Next, lower the cat into the carrier that’s been placed on its short end, or at least on a diagonal. Got it? Sounds so easy on paper.

My recommendation? Bundle up in your thickest clothing, cover all your skin, wear a ski mask if you must. Or pay someone else to do it. And throw in a box of Band-aids.

p.s. Lucky is fine, but I’m wondering about my vet. She suggested to me, in all seriousness, that my cat could have caught something from my husband who is sick this week. She said if he has the flu (he doesn’t) Lucky could have picked it up from him. Do I have to check my vet’s credentials or has anyone ever heard of such a thing? Daisy, you’re a cat. Can you confirm?

I’m helping a friend out by trying to find a Forever Home for two adorable cats in the Chicago area. Rather than repeat the information about them here, I’m going to send you over to JD at I Do Things, who is on the hunt.

There is a HUGE incentive, besides getting to be a fabulous human being who can save kitties from a shelter.

The owner is offering a full year’s worth of kitty litter and food for the cats, PLUS a cash incentive.

Please help us by getting the word out: Stumble, Tweet, or Facebook this (or JD’s post).

Thanks!

UPDATE FROM JD:

A final thank you for all the good wishes and button-pushing and retweeting.

LUCKY AND MINNIE HAVE FOUND A FOREVER HOME!!!!

Meet Shadow. She’s a sweetheart, but she’s got a problem.

She only wants to drink water directly from the faucet.

Since she developed this little habit, it’s become near impossible to function in the kitchen.

Whenever my husband or I walks into the kitchen, she follows.

Whenever we’re washing our hands or rinsing a dish, she’s there.

Whenever she hears the garage door open, she’s on the counter. Waiting.

At 5:00AM, like clockwork, she’s nudging us out of bed. When I get up, she runs downstairs to sit in the sink.

I oblige her. Again.

We figured it’d be easy to break her of the habit if we never turned the water on for her. Or so we thought.

All that does is make her smash her face, over and over, into the spigot and give us that wanting look. And so we give in. She once got an eye infection, we assume because of this smashing behavior. The tip of the faucet can’t be that clean.

I know they make pet water dishes that produce a steady stream of water, but we don’t think that’ll be good enough for her. When she does decide to drink from a bowl, she pushes it all over the floor and dumps half of it.

Must go. I feel eyes burning a hole through the back of my head. She’s in the sink again.

So let’s hear it. In what ways do your pets rule your household?

One of the reasons I admire cats is their fastidious nature, especially with their bathroom habits. I love that my cats feel the need to bury their business.

It means I don’t have to see it au natural. A deposit covered in kitty litter is infinitely more tolerable to clean up than one that isn’t.

Which is why I was monumentally grossed out when one of my cats came running up from the basement and flung from his butt a large deposit that hadn’t detached itself at the litter box. Right there in the living room. Thanks, buddy.

He looked at me. I looked at it. Both of us ran away in horror.

I immediately went to the sink, wet some paper towels and, when I picked it up, almost vomited. In my hurry to get rid of the offense, I forgot that the deposit would be piping hot.

Now. Dog owners. Here’s the question. If you take your dog for a walk and you have pooper scooper laws where you live, how do you collect and carry away your dog’s business?

I’ve very serious. I want to know how you do doggie doo duty. Do you use a special glove? Do you use a plastic bag, grab it from the inside, then turn it inside out and knot it? I mean, plastic bags are thin. Don’t you want to vomit? Do you wait for the deposit to cool off before picking it up?

This whole process of having to clean up after a dog like that blows my mind. I once saw a guy dressed in a business suit, walking his dog before work. He held a cup of coffee in his left hand and a bag of poo in his right. I wouldn’t do it myself, but man, I admire anyone who can.

Woof!

Stinky doesn’t want you to forget about the chance to win cool prizes. And I want to make sure you know it’s possible we’ll reach the magic number this weekend. Please don’t miss the window of opportunity.

Cancel your life for a while if you have to. Just be there at #9,999!

UPDATE: I removed the counter since we’re getting so close. The removal of the counter ensures that no one will really know when we hit 10,000 and we can keep the winning comment truly random.

***** The Winner’s Circle *****

The latest winners of the Random Comment Picked-by-My-Husband Contest are:

From the last post, comment #42, Karen of A Strange Life Revisited.

From the post before, comment #84, Gandalf and Grayson.

Congratulations on winning a Junk Drawer magnet! I’ll be in touch with both of you shortly.

——–

One final thing, I’m tired of hanging out in the basement of Humor-Blogs.com, so if you click this link and smiley me, it might get me up to the first floor where all the cool kids hang out.

Here is a flower arrangement that my husband sent me to work on our wedding anniversary last week.

It’s a lot like another one he sent me that had thin branches jutting out of it, one of which almost took out an eye when I got too close.

I do not know how or if I’ll get it in my car to bring it home.

When I’m working at my desk, its appendages seem to move in my peripheral vision and it scares me.

It’s near impossible to water because it’s jam-packed at the vase neck. And the cat’s in the way.

And while we’re on the cat, I swear its eyes follow me around my cube.

If I’m not mistaken, a flower arrangement is supposed to make me happy, not freak me out.

A little smaller next time, dear. And not so horror movie. I promise I’ll appreciate the gesture just as much.

I’m pretty sure it can strangle me when I’m not looking.