Awhile back, Mr. Big Moose announced his annoyance regarding my chronic apathy and lethargy. I, in turn, told him to shove it.
Now, nothing about this is unusual. But this particular conversation took an unexpected turn.
The dialogue started with me bemoaning our rather recent loss of our kitty, Mac.
Me: I really miss Mac. I'm starting to forget the little things about him, and I hate that. If I forget these things, it's like he's dying all over again.
Chris countered with his usual degree of sympathy.
Chris: Could you be any more pathetic?
I ignored him and continued my train of thought.
Me: I guess it's good that I have so many pictures of Mac. I can always look through them to remember him.
Now, dear reader, I easily have 1,000 pictures of Mac. And I certainly have just as many pictures of our other cat, Booger. I take pictures ALL. THE. TIME., and I apologize exactly not one bit for my obsession of capturing precious moments with my kitties. (FYI: I'm infertile, and my cats fill my baby hole.) (P.S. Stop being a pervert. My baby hole is in my heart. Not my... well, you know, my physical baby hole.) (P.P.S. This got gross. And creepy. And I DO apologize for that.)
Anyway, since the dawn of our marriage, Mr. Big Moose has resented my pristine photography skills. When I shot (with a camera, not a gun) my cats, my husband, my estate sale finds, my restaurant food, my nieces/nephews, my new color of nail polish after my pedicure, etc..., he moaned in exasperation.
Which is exactly the same sound he made when I mentioned my millions of Mac pictures.
Chris: Maybe you could take up cat scrapbooking. I bet you wouldn't complain about being bored then.
Mind you, dear Studier of A Study of Stuff -- he intended to convey sarcasm. Oh, and I wasn't bored when I talked about Mac. I was sad. Weeping stands exactly opposite of doing nothing. I should know. I do it enough. (Cancer, my friends. I have cancer. I can cry as much as I want.)
So, when he said "cat scrapbooking," I instantly swallowed my snarky retort (and, to be truthful, some of the snot produced by said sobbing), and my eyes glimmered.
Chris: No. No. No. NO! That was NOT a serious suggestion!
Me: But why couldn't I have just one cat scrapbook? It'd be tasteful.
Chris bought exactly 0 of my blatant lies that day. (Because, seriously, even I will admit that feline picture books aren't exactly the art sought by the upper crusties of our society.)
Chris: I will NOT have a Booger Book that you show to our guests!
Me: A Booger Book? Do you honestly think I could forget Mac so easily? It was be my CAT Book, and it would include all of our babies --- Boogs, Mac, AND the new kitten we're getting in January.
And thus is began: The most epic battle in the Sandy Household since the 2009 Invasion of the Air Conditioner and the Retreat of The Big Moose to His Icy Bedroom.
Chris argued: You will look like a completely crazy cat lady if you do this...
I countered: What's wrong with that?
Chris tried: I won't allow it.
I smacked him, and then said: You won't let your WIFE, who has CANCER, have ONE hobby?
With that final blast, I won the argument.
Sorta.
I guess.
Because, you see, even though Chris resigned himself to the fate of having a cat scrapbook (or scratchbook, as he refers to it) in the house, I never actually bought one. I kept planning to, but I never actually got it done.
AND THEN THE MOST MAGICAL THING IN ALL THE WORLD'S HISTORY OCCURRED:
Upon arriving home from a week of Christmas celebrations with my family, a plain cardboard box awaited me. Only my name and address graced the container's cover, along with a lone postmark from a town called Newton.
No return address. No card. No clue at all as to the Santa behind my unopened gift.
I swear that when I finally unearthed the treasure that the heavens parted and the angels hopped down alongside me and we all started dancing the Macerana. I'm telling ya, it felt that glorious. For inside this mystery box was a...
CAT SCRAPBOOK!
No, for realz. Someone just sent me a cat scrapbook. And by someone, I mean, I have absolutely 0 clue who gifted it to me. This Santa really is secret, and I don't know why this who did what they did and how. But I'm thrilled.
Here's my baby:
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And here are some of the rad stickers I'll get to use:
All in all, I'm pretty darn jazzed.
So, thanks a whole heap, Secret Santa-Claws! You've given me something meow-y fun to do in my down time, and you've given me the purrrfect Cat-urday sleuthing mission: To discover your identity and send you a picture of my cats!
In Other Mail News:
Awhile back, I posted a blog called "Cancer is Crap," and, well, the title sorta gave it away. I have cancer, and the meds associated with my particular cancer make me shit my shorts, because that's just the sort of luck I have.
After reading the post, one of A Study of Stuff's fans (and a friend, I'd like to think) sent me the following card:
The inside reads:
"What kind?...
... Seriously, get better soon!"
When it comes to shit, I rarely am amused, but this left me with a big shit-eating grin (pun both intended and disgusting). Thank you, dear card-sender! It's not easy having cancer, but you made it that much more bearable for a day. (And by bearable, obviously, I mean black bear. That's the type of poo to which I most relate in my cancerous state.)
So... that's about it folks. I don't really got much more. So, guess that means I should stop typing now...
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