If you're a dog lover, check in next week when I tackle the Kyjen Hardcore Firehouse Dog Toy With Squeaker

Well, this is a first. Someone wants me to expand on something. Usually it’s the opposite (oh, you may not have requested it directly, but I've heard your disgruntled rumblings).

Small Town Mommy left me a request:

I know you have sworn off of all things cat, but I want to hear more about the Furminator. I keep finding that same ball in a pile on my rug (usually after being ingested by a cat). Perform a public service and talk more about your Furminator.

I’m going to assume that by “small ball” she is referring to cat hair and not her child (come on, that’s fair, my cats are large enough to ingest my child) and go from there.



STM, I, too find the same ball of fur on my rugs (see above). Every time the damn cat sits, he leaves tufts of fur. He has a dreadlock on his ass that’s the size of a jumbo muffin. We try to have him professionally shaved every so often because the sight of him cleaning himself and eating his fur makes me vomit uncontrollably, but he doesn’t like to leave the house.

In fact, the last time I dropped him off at a pet spa, the receptionist left me a nasty message an hour later telling me that I had to get my animal right away because he’d bitten the groomer and it’s the spa’s policy that if an animal bites the groomer, the animal must be picked up within 30 minutes or they charge you a fee. (They could have been creative and named the fee something like “your pet sucks so bad fee" but they weren’t—they were just blandly angry. Yawn).

I got there as soon as humanly possible, but the receptionist was still a bitch. And the poor kitty! He was in a half-shaved, half-crazed state. He looked like he had mange! And they still wanted me to pay.

Which I did. Right before I asked her when I could make another appointment. (If you’re going to behave like an asshole then I am going to behave like a moron, it’s called the ying and yang of commerce.)

But let’s get back to that Arnold Schwarzenegger of fur removal shall we?

At first I wasn’t that impressed, but once you get going and the fur starts flying, it’s hard to stop (I mean it, I'm thinking about doing it right now). The biggest problem was the stupid cat. I had to chase him from room to room then jump as he lunged for my hand. At one point I put a pile of treats in front of him so he’d sit still. I wanted to get my Furminating hands on his fluffy belly so bad, but that would have required a muzzle.

The pile I so diligently documented took about 20 minutes to harvest. I’m guessing it was about five Starbursts high (see below). The nice thing is that the brush keeps collecting fur no matter how full the teeth are, so you’re not constantly stopping to clean it. Next time I might order the larger model— the Equine Tool perhaps—because the cat is the size of a small pony.



My only concern is that the brush is metal and you have to rake kind of hard to catch the fur, so I worried I was hurting him. But when I was through with him, he looked about 10 pounds lighter and happier. And yes, shinier.

So, wrapping up, I’d highly recommend the Furminator if: (a) you have time to dedicate to brushing, (b) your pet will sit still long enough to get the process going and (c) you remember not to wear socks while you’re Furminating because you will look like Sasquatch when you’re done.

STM, I hope that answers some of your questions.

This is the Furminator Queen officially signing off. (Seriously, I feel like I'm starting to infringe on Daisy's turf.)

Nothing says baptism like milk jugs and a wet monkey

I’m happy to be off the cat kick and on to…monkeys. That looks like a monkey, doesn’t it? Chuck thinks it’s a bear. Its name is Mel and thanks to Junior, it was dunked in holy water about 50 times this morning.

At the ripe age of 16 months we finally had Junior baptized. We would have done it sooner, but Chuck had to take Catechism classes and I had to quit my Wiccan knitting circle.

Kidding.

Junior did so well—up until the actual water part. It didn’t help that the priest spoke broken English and kept losing his place in the book. By the time he was ready to douse my kid, Junior was a mess. The only thing that calmed him down was the sight of Mel in the cistern. He’d yell “bat” (bath), pick Mel up and chuck him in again.

Luckily, the priest had a sense of humor. Unluckily, no one told me that the flash from the camera was capturing my leopard-print bra oh so clearly.



Guess who was taking the pictures? Chuck’s dad. The same guy who had a bird’s eye view of my gals that whole picnic back in July (I'm not going to link to that post because I'd like to put the past, ehem, behind me).

Seriously, the guy must think his daughter-in-law is hooter-hyper. Maybe I'll write him a letter:

Dear Chuck's dad,

Please stop taking pictures of my goods, even though I appear to be showcasing them at every family function. In truth, I am a woman of granny bathing suits, not, as you would seem to believe, bursting bijongas. It’s, um, too bad you have actual photos that would seem to prove otherwise. See you at Christmas (I’ll be the one wearing the turtleneck, wink wink). Best, Mrs. Mullet.


Ah hell, maybe I'll just let it go.

I'm putting this pussy to bed

It's Saturday night. We have friends coming over, I swear. But before they get here I have to show you this:



It's disgusting. It looks like a terrible, hairy marshmallow creature but it's no longer on my cat thanks to the Furminator. I'm a little surprised by how habit forming the brushing was. Once I got started, I couldn't stop. Thankfully the cat attacked my hand so I had to.

Do you like the leftover Halloween candy I used for reference? (I ate it after the photo shoot.)

This is my last feline/fur post for a loooooooong time. I'm starting to creep myself out (and looking at all that hair is actually making me gag).

I'm goin' places—FUR real!

I was being facetious about the blogger fame to which I have ascended. I really was. Didjya think I was being all boasty and shit? Huh?

I won't lie. Some days I like to pretend I'm Rocks in My Dryer or Immoral Matriarch but then I think, why be a Saks when you can be a Harry's Drive-in? Sure, when you've reached cult blogmama status you get to sample fabulous purses, armchairs and gemstones and your life is all devour-my-brilliantness-my-lowly-peon-readers but come on, if I wasn't the wee little Mrs. Mullet I wouldn't have come home yesterday to find this:



Yes! The lovely people at Furminator saw my whiny post about my fat furballs and sent me a Furminator, some shampoo, and a spray bottle. Wasn't that nice of them?

Design Mom? She ain't got shit on me.

(Do I have my doubts that a five inch metal brush can tackle that beast to the right? Hell yes.)

It's like Oprah's favorite things—sort of

You know you've reached the highest peaks of blogging (BMW) success when you mention (BMW) a product on your blog and (BMW) their PR firm promptly sends you a sample. I (BMW) can't go into more detail (BMW) just yet—Junior is shaking his cage (BMW) and I'm still in my bathrobe—but let's just say (BMW) this product is fun for the whole dang family.

You are going to be so jealous.

(Yah, I know the BMW thing is a long shot but why stop while I'm ahead?)

A headless mother at story time? Say it isn't so!

I played hookie today so I could take Junior to story time at the library. My mom has been hinting that she’d like to take him one of the days she baby sits, so I had to beat her to the punch.

I had to.

Call it sad. Call it queer. I really don’t care. When you get home from work one day and see that your mother has changed your son from the “Mom” shirt he was wearing into a plain, navy tee for no apparent reason other than she wants your baby to be her baby, you must be the first to bring him to story time.

The impetus for all this neck-and-neck (besides the wardrobe switch)? Last night. Junior and I were watching the election countdown and he was standing by the couch, letting go with his hands and beaming as he balanced. I said, “Come here!” and, like something out of a Hallmark made-for-TV movie, he did. My little gremlin took four steps—four very even steps—and fell into my arms.

Do I even need to tell you that I scooped him up and covered him with mom slobber? I was in Working Mother’s Heaven. I have been begging him and pleading with him not to take his first steps while I’m at work and there he went—stepping right into my open arms.

Chuck was at a late meeting; I had to call someone and share the news.

“Mom? Junior walked to me. He took his first steps.”

(There was a time when I used to call my mom and she’d have to call me back because she was vacuuming the dog; how I wish that had happened here.)

“He walked?” my mother asked. “Did he do that for you?”

“What do you mean, ‘for me’ ?”

“Nothing. He’s only been standing for me. Just standing. Yesterday when I was there with him—and Chuck—he let go and stood there—three small steps—stood there—didn’t come to me—just small steps—and standing—there—and—barely saw it—small—standing—”

“Oh.”

“You must be so happy you saw it. Since you’re out of the house.”

Screech. Out of the house? What the fuck kind of esoteric comment is that? What does she think I have been doing out.of.the.house? Peddling pixie dust? Inviting people to the circus? Writing love letters to Richard Simmons? I have been working to help my family keep our house and eat and enjoy amenities like clothing and shampoo.

When I got off the phone my head exploded. It was really gross. Poor Chuck had to order me a new one. Luckily it came just in time for story time. And luckily the library let me borrow the new and improved “Grammying for Dummies: How not to stomp on your daughter's heart.”

When I recorded the cheery and exclamation-riddled “first step” entry in Junior’s baby book I had a good laugh (I’d had some wine at that point). And I thought, Oh, Junior. Your baby book is so emotionally gilded it makes my fillings hurt.

As far as I know, Mrs. Robinson didn't climb any mountains

So it’s November. Big month, yesiree. For instance, tomorrow. And November 5th, which is Art Garfunkel’s 66th birthday. Then there’s November 15th, which is America Recycles Day, and the obvious ones, Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving. November is also Aviation History Month, Epilepsy Awareness Month, and Peanut Butter Lovers Month (come on—we need a month for that?)

What you don’t know is that November is the month of my first-ever high school reunion—a mere 15 years after the fact. Our class president actually hated our class. She was chunky alterna chick meets fleet of JCrew v-necks (I’m not sure how she got elected, my class was way too homogenous to vote for someone who didn’t wear cable knits). Anyway, give someone 15 years to grow hazy on past grievances and of course she’s going to get nostalgic and plan a reunion…at a shanty lobster shack.

I’m going. Screw it. I got the damn invitation the very same day I found my first gray hair. That’s obviously a sign: You’re aging jerk off, so go see who turned out to be really hot. (That’s the truth, you can’t deny it, we all want to know if Eric Rothbaum kept his sexy blonde curls).

Out of 252 people, 50 have RSVPed yes. Counting me and my two carpooling friends, that’s 47 unique visitors (oh, you insidious blog lingo, you). That’s pathetic!

Moving on…November is also the wedding month of the boy—Pete—who formerly had a crush on me. Now, lots of boys have had crushes on me (it’s true, like 589 have), but as we all know, crushes are often one way streets. I could never love Pete. His fingers resembled mini Jimmy Dean sausage links and he ate steak in a way that…let’s just say I could envision him at a steak house in 25 years with a gut that rivaled Mount Everest.

Nonetheless, Pete is the boy I was with the night I met Chuck. And he knew Chuck liked me so he kept his stumpy hand across my chair all night so Chuck couldn’t move any closer to talk to me. Even more, when Chuck asked him for my number, he said no. So Chuck found out where he lived, went to his apartment under the guise of renting the spare bedroom and while Pete was in the bathroom, Chuck stole my number from his Rolodex (this was 1997, when the Rolodex was en vogue).

Chuck liked me that much. And he loves me so much he doesn’t mind that I go to my high school reunion solo.

Sucka! (Just kidding, honey.)

That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Now get off the computer and go send Art Garfunkel a birthday card!

(And yes, I chose the prime rib plate for Pete’s wedding, just for old time’s sake.)